The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including the Series ...

Ah! luckless imp is he, whose worth elate,
Forces him pay this heavy tax for being great.

There stood an ancient mount, yclept Parnass,
(The fair domain of sacred Poesy)
Which, with fresh odours ever-blooming, was
Besprinkled with the dew of Castaly; [glides,
Which now in soothing murmurs whisp'ring
Wat'ring with genial waves the fragrant soil,
Now rolls adown the mountain's steepy sides,
Teaching the vales full beauteously to smile,
Dame Nature's handy-work, not form'd by lab'ring
toil.

The Muses fair, these peaceful shades among, With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings; The air in silence listens to the song, And Time forgets to ply his lazy wings; Pale-visag'd Care, with foul unhallow'd feet, Attempts the summit of the hill to gain, Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat; Her unavailing strength is spent in vain, Content sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain.

Oft Phoebus self left his divine abode, And here enshrouded in a shady bow'r, Regardless of his state, lay'd by the god, And own'd sweet Music's more alluring pow'r. On either side was plac'd a peerless wight, Whose merit long had fill'd the trump of Fame; This, Fancy's darling child, was Spenser hight, Who pip'd full pleasing on the banks of Tame; That no less fam'd than he, and Milton was his

name.

In these cool bow'rs they live supinely calm;
Now harmless talk, now emulously sing;
While Virtue, pouring round her sacred balm,
Makes happiness eternal as the spring.
Alternately they sung; now Spenser 'gan,
Of jousts and tournaments, and champions
strong;

Now Milton sung of disobedient man,

And Eden lost: the bards around them throng, Drawn by the wond'rous magic of their princes'

song.

Not far from these, Dan Chaucer, ancient wight, A lofty seat on Mount Parnassus held, Who long had been the Muses' chief delight; His reverend locks were silver'd o'er with eld; Grave was his visage, and his habit plain; And while he sung, fair Nature he display'd, In verse albeit uncouth, and simple strain; Ne mote he well be seen, so thick the shade, Which elms and aged oaks had all around him made.

Next Shakspeare sat, irregularly great,
And in his hand a magic rod did hold,
Which visionary beings did create,
And turn the foulest dross to purest gold:
Whatever spirits rove in earth or air,
Or bad or good, obey his dread command;
To his behests these willingly repair,
Those aw'd by terrours of his magic wand,
The which not all their pow'rs united might with-
stand.

Beside the bard there stood a beauteous maid,
Whose glittering appearance dimm'd the eyen;
Her thin-wrought vesture various tints display'd,
Fancy her name, ysprong of race divine;

Fer mantle wimpled1 low, her silken hair, Which loose adown her well-turn'd shoulders stray'd,

"She made a net to catch the wanton Air," Whose love-sick breezes all around her play'd And seem'd in whispers soft to court the heav'nly maid.

And ever and anon she wav'd in air

A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow'r:
She wav'd it round: eftsoons there did appear
Spirits and witches, forms unknown before:
Again she lifts her wonder-working wand;
Eftsoons upon the flow'ry plain were seen
The gay inhabitants of fairie land,

And blithe attendants upon Mab their queen
In mystic circles danc'd along th' enchanted green.

On th' other side stood Nature, goddess fair; A matron seem'd she, and of manners staid; Beauteous her form, majestic was her air, In loose attire of purest white array'd: A potent rod she bore, whose pow'r was such, (As from her darling's works may well be shown) That often with its sou'-enchanting touch, She rais'd or joy, or caus'd the deep-felt groan, And each man's passions made subservient to her

own.

But lo! thick fogs from out the earth arise,
And murky mists the buxom air invade,
Which with contagion dire infect the skies,
And all around their baleful influence shed;
Th' infected sky, which whilom was so fair,
With thick Cimmerian darkness is o'erspread;
The Sun, which whitom shone without compare,
Muffles in pitchy veil his radiant head,

And fore the time sore-grieving seeks his wat'ry bed.

Envy, the daughter of fell Acheron,

(The flood of deadly hate and gloomy night)
Had left precipitate her Stygian throne,
And through the frighted heavens wing'd her
flight:

With careful eye each realm she did explore,
Ne mote she ought of happiness observe;
For happiness, alas! was now no more,
Sith ev'ry one from virtue's paths did swerve,
And trample on religion base designs to serve.

At length, on blest Parnassus seated high,
Their temple circled with a laurel crown,
Spenser and Milton met her scowling eye,
And turn'd her horrid grin into a frown.
Full fast unto her sister did she post,
There to unload the venom of her breast,
To tell bow all her happiness was crost,
Sith others were of happiness possest:
Did never gloomy Hell send forth like ugly pest.

Within the covert of a gloomy wood,
Where fun'ral cypress star-proofbranchesspread,
O'ergrown with tangling briers a cavern stood;
Fit place for melancholy dreary-head'.

Here a deformed monster joy'd to won, Which on fell rancour ever was ybent, All from the rising to the setting sun, Her heart pursued spite with black intent, Ne could her iron mind at human woes relent.

In flowing sable stole she was yclad,
Which with her countenance did well accord;
Forth from her mouth, like one through grief
gone mad,

A frothy sea of nauseous foam was pour'd;
A ghastly grin and eyes asquint, display
The rancour which her hellish thoughts contain,
And how, when man is blest, she pines away,
Burning to turn his happiness to pain;
Malice the monster's name, a foe to God and man.

Along the floor black loathsome toads still crawl,

Their gullets swell'd with poison's mortal bane, Which ever and anon they spit at all Whom hapless fortune leads too near her den; Around her waist, in place of silken zone, A life-devouring viper rear'd his head, Who no distinction made 'twixt friend and foen, But death on ev'ry side fierce brandished, Fly, reckless mortals, fly, in vain is hardy-head3.

Impatient Envy, through th' etherial waste, With inward venom fraught, and deadly spite, Unto this cavern steer'd her panting haste, Enshrouded in a darksome veil of night. Her inmost heart burnt with impetuous ire, And fell destruction sparkled in her look, Her ferret eyes flash'd with revengeful fire, Awhile contending passions utt'rance choke, At length the fiend in furious tone her silence broke.

"Sister, arise! see how our pow'r decays, No more our empire thou and I can boast, Sith mortal man now gains immortal praise, Sith man is blest, and thou and I are lost: See in what state Parnassus' bill appears; See Phoebus' self two happy bards atween; See how the god their song attentive hears; This Spenser hight, that Milton, well I ween! Who can behold unmov'd sike heart-tormenting scene?

"Sister, arise! ne let our courage droop, Perforce we will compel these mortals own, That mortal force unto our force shall stoop; Envy and Malice then shall reign alone: Thou best has known to file thy tongue with lies, And to deceive mankind with specious bait: Like Truth accoutred, spreadest forgeries, The fountain of contention and of hate: Arise, unite with me, and be as whilom great!" The fiend obey'd, and with impatient voice"Tremble, ye bards, within that blissful seat; Malice and Envy shall o'erthrow your joys, Nor Phoebus self shall our designs defeat. Shall we, who under friendship's feigned veil, Prompted the bold archangel to rebel; Shall we, who under show of sacred zeal, Plung'dhalf the pow'rs of Heav'n in lowest HellSuch vile disgrace of us no mortal man shall tell."

3 Hardy-head. Courage.

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Forth issued from their dismal dark abodes
The birds attendant upon hideous night,
Shriek-owls and ravens, whose fell croaking bodes
Approaching death to miserable wight:
Did never mind of man behold sike dreadful sight?
Apollo wails his darling done to die
By foul attempt of Envy's fatal bane;
The Muses sprinkle him with dew of Castaly,
And crown his death with many a living strain;
Hoary Parnassus beats his aged breast,
Aged, yet ne'er before did sorrow know;
The flowers drooping their despair attest,
Th' aggrieved rivers querulously flow;
All nature sudden groan'd with sympathetic woe.
But, lo! the sky a gayer livery wears,
The melting clouds begin to fade apace,
And now the cloak of darkness disappears,
(May darkness ever thus to light give place!)
Erst griev'd Apollo jocund looks resumes,
The Nine renew their whilom cheerful song,
No grief Parnassus' aged breast consumes,
For from the teeming earth new flowers sprong,
The plenteous rivers flow'd full peacefully along.
The stricken bard fresh vital heat renews,
Whose blood, erst stagnant, rushes through his
veins;

Life through each pore her spirit doth infuse,
And Fame by Malice unextinguish'd reigns:
And see, a form breaks forth, all heav'nly bright,
Upheld by one of mortal progeny,

A female form, yclad in snowy-white,
Ne half so fair at distance seen as nigh;

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT DRURY-
LANE THEATRE, ON HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH:
DAY, 1761.

GENIUS, neglected, mourns his wither'd bays;
But soars to Heav'n from virtue's generous praise.
When kings themselves the proper judges sit
O'er the blest realms of science, arts, and wit,
Each eager breast beats high for glorious fame,
Aud emulation glows with active flame.
Thus, with Augustus rose imperial Rome,
For arms renown'd abroad, for arts at home.
Thus, when Eliza fill'd Britannia's throne,
Then sinew'd genius strong and nervous rose,
What arts, what learning was not then our own?
In Spenser's numbers, and in Raleigh's prose;
On Bacon's lips then every science hung, [tongue.
Her patriot smiles fell, like refreshing dews,
And Nature spoke from her own Shakspeare's
To wake to life each pleasing useful Muse,
While every virtue which the queen profess'd,
Beam'd on her subjects, but to make them blest.

Douglas and Truth appear, Envy and Lauder die. O glorious times!-O theme of praise divine!

PROLOGUE TO THE JEALOUS WIFE.
SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK,

THE Jealous Wife! a comedy! poor man!
A charming subject! but a wretched plan.
His skittish wit, o'erleaping the due bound,
Commits flat trespass upon tragic ground.
Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen,
Grow too familiar in the comic scene.
Tinge but the language with heroic chime,
'Tis passion, pathos, character, sublime!
What round big words had swell'd the pompous
A king the husband, and the wife a queen! [scene,
Then might Distraction rend her graceful hair,
See sightless forms, and scream, and gape, and stare.
Drawcansir Death had rag'd without control,
Here the drawn dagger, there the poison'd bowl.
What eyes had stream'd at all the whining woe!
What hands had thunder'd at each Hah, and Oh!
But peace! the gentle prologue custom sends,
Like drum and serjeant, to beat up for friends.
At vice and folly, each a lawful game,
Our author flies, but with no partial aim.
He read the manuers, open as they lie
In Nature's volume to the general eye.
Books too he read, nor blush'd to use their store-
He does but what his betters did before.
Shakspeare has done it, and the Grecian stage
Caught truth of character from Homer's page.
If in his scenes an honest skill is shown,
And borrowing little, much appears his own;
If what a master's happy pencil drew
He brings more forward, in dramatic view;

VOL. XV.

-Be happy, Britain, then-such times are thine.
Behold e'en now strong science imps her wing,
And arts revive beneath a patriot king.
The Muses too burst forth with double light,
To shed their lustre in a monarch's sight.
His cheering smiles alike to all extend-
Perhaps this spot may boast a royal friend.
And when a prince, with early judgment grac'd,
Himself shall marshal out the way to taste,
Caught with the flame perhaps e'en here may rise
Some powerful genius of uncommon size,
And, pleas'd with Nature, Nature's depth explore,
And be what our great Shakspeare was before.

PROLOGUE TO HECUBA.
SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, 1761.
A Grecian bard, two thousand years ago,
Plann'd this sad fable of illustrious woe;
Waken'd each soft emotion of the breast,
And call'd forth tears, that would not be supprest.
Yet, O ye mighty sirs, of judgment chaste,
Who, lacking genius, have a deal of taste,
Can you forgive our modern ancient piece,
Which brings no chorus, tho' it comes from
Greece?

Kind social chorus, which all humours meets,
And sings and dances up and down the streets.

-Oh! might true taste, in these unclassic days,
Revive the Grecian fashions with their plays!
Then, rais'd on stilts, our players would stalk and
age,

And, at three steps, stride o'er a modern stage;

Each gesture then would boast unusual charms,
From lengthen'd legs, stuff'd body, sprawling arms!
Your critic eye would then no pigmies see,
But buskins make a giant e'en of me.
No features then the poet's mind would trace,
But one black vizor blot out all the face.

O! glorious times, when actors thus could strike,
Expressive, inexpressive, all alike!

Less change of face than in our Punch they saw, For Punch can roll his eyes, and wag his jaw; With one set glare they mouth'd the rumbling verse; Our Gog and Magog look not half so fierce!

Yet, though depriv'd of instruments like these, Nature, perhaps, may find a way to please; Which, wheresoe'er she giows with genuine flame, In Greece, in Rome, in England, is the same.

Of raillery then, ye modern wits, beware, Nor damn the Grecian poet for the player. Theirs was the skill, with honest help of art, To win, by just degree, the yielding heart. What if our Shakspeare claims the magic throne, And in one instant makes us all his own; They differ only in one point of view, For Shakspeare's nature, was their nature too.

ODE

SPOKEN ON A PUBLIC OCCASION AT WESTMINSTER

SCHOOL.

NOR at Apollo's vaunted shrine, Nor to the fabled Sisters Nine, Offers the youth his ineffectual vow,

Far be their rites!-Such worship fits not now; When at Eliza's sacred name

Each breast receives the present flame: While eager genius plumes her infant wings, And with bold impulse strikes th' accordant Reflecting on the crowded line

[strings,

Of mitred sages, bards divine,
Of patriots, active in their country's cause,
Who plan her councils, or direct her laws.

Oh Memory! how thou lov'st to stray,
Delighted, o'er the flow'ry way

Of childhood's grecuer years! when simple youth
Pour'd the pure dictates of ingenuous truth!
'Tis then the souls congenial meet,
Inspir'd with friendship's genuine heat,
Ere interest, frantic zeal, or jealous art,
Have taught the language foreign to the heart.

'Twas here, in many an early strain
Dryden first try'd his classic vein,
Spurr'd his strong genius to the distant goal,
In wild effusions of his manly soul;

When Busby's skill, and judgment sage,
Repress'd the poet's frantic rage,
Cropt his luxuriance bold, and blended taught
The flow of numbers with the strength of thought.

Nor, Cowley, be thy Muse forgot! which strays In wit's ambiguous flowery maze, With many a pointed turn and studied art: Though affectation blot thy rhyme, Thy mind was lofty and sublime, And manly honour dignified thy heart: Though fond of wit, yet firm to virtue's plan, The poet's trifles ne'er disgrac'd the man.

Well might thy morals sweet engage Th' attention of the mitred sage, Smit with the plain simplicity of truth. For not ambition's giddy strife,

The gilded toys of public life, Which snare the gay unstable youth,

Could lure thee from the sober charms, Which lapt thee in Retirement's arms, Whence thou, untainted with the pride of state, Could'st smile with pity on the bustling great. Such were Eliza's sons. Her fost'ring care Here bade free genius tune his grateful song, Which else had wasted in the desert air, Or droop'd unnotic'd 'mid the vulgar throng. -Ne'er may her youth degenerate shame The glories of Eliza's name!

But with the poet's phrensy bold,

Such as inspir'd her bards of old,

Pluck the green laurel from the hand of Fame!

See! where Britannia stands
With close infolded hands,

On yonder sea-beat shore!

Behold her languid air!
Lo! her dishevell'd hair!

Majestic now no more!

Still on the sullen wave her eye is bent,
The trident of the main thrown idle by;
Old Thames, his sea-green mantle rent,
Inverts his urn, and heaves a doleful sigh.
Hark! to the winds and waves
Frantic with grief she raves,

And, "Cruel gods!" she cries;
Each chalky cliff around,
Each rock returns the sound,

And "Cruel gods!" replies.
CALLIOPE.

See! the procession sad and slow,
Walks in a solemn pomp of woe
Through awful arches, gloomy aisles,
And rows of monumental piles,
Where lie the venerable just,
Where heroes moulder into dust.

Now quietly inurn'd he lies,
Pale! pale! inanimate and cold!
Where round him baleful vapours rise,
'Midst bones of legislators old!

The Muses now their heads shall raise;
The arts to life shall spring;
Virgins, we'll trim our wither'd bays,

And wake each vocal string;
Now shall the sculptor's happy skill
Touch the rude stone to life;
The painter shall his canvas fill,

Pleas'd with his mimic strife.
CLIO.

Sweet Mercy! Faith! celestial Truth!
Now by your aid the royal youth

Shall live the guardian of the laws;
Dear Liberty! round Albion's isle
That bid'st eternal sunshine smile,

He now will guard your sacred cause.

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