Classic Poem

Accept, Boscawen! these unpolish'd lays,
Nor blame too much the verse you cannot praise.
For you, far other hards have wak'd the string,
Far other bards for you were wont to sing;
Yet on the gale their parting music steals,
Yet your charm'd ear the lov'd impression feels:
You heard the lyres of Littelton and Young,
And that a grace, and this a seraph strung.
These are no more! but not with these decline
The Attic chasteness or the vig'rous line.
Still, sad Elfrida's poet shall complain,
Still, either Warton breathe his classic strain:
While, for the wonders of the gothic page,
Otranto's fame shall vindicate the age.
Nor tremble lest the tuneful art expire,
While Beattie strikes anew old Spenser's lyre;
He, best to paint the genuine minstrel knew,
Who from himself the living portrait drew.
Though Latin bards had gloried in his name,
When in full brightness burnt the Latian flame;
Yet fir'd with loftier hopes than transient bays,
See Lowth despise the meed of mortal praise;
Spurn the cheap wreath by human science won,
Born on the wing sublime of Amos' son!
He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flaw,
And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
To snatch bright beauty from devouring fate,
And lengthen nature's transitory date;
At once the critic's and the painter's art,
With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace impart;
To form with code correct the graphic school,
And lawless fancy curb by sober rule;
To show how genius fires, how taste restrains,
While, what both are, his pencil best explains,
Have we not Reynolds? lives not Jenyns yet,
To prove his lowest title was a wit?
Though purer flames thy hallow'd seal inspire
Than e'er were kindled at the muse's fire;
Thee, mitred Chester! all the Nine shall boast:
And is not Johnson ours? himself an host!
Yes, still for you your gentle stars dispense
The charm of friendship and the feast of sense:
Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends,
To call the wisest, brightest, best, your friends;
And while to these I raise the votive line,
O let me grateful own these friends are mine;
With Carter trace the wit to Athens known,
Or view in Montagu that wit our own:
Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's instructive page,
Intent to raise the morals of the age:
Or boast, in Walsingham, the various power
To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour:
Delany, too, is ours, serenely bright,
Wisdom's strong ray, and virtue's milder light:
And she who bless'd the friend, and grac'd the lays
Of poignant Swift, still gilds our social days;
Long, long, protract thy light, O star benign!
Whose setting beams with milder lustre shine.
Nor, Barbauld, shall my glowing heart refuse
Its tribute to thy virtues, or thy muse;
This humble merit shall at least be mine,
The poet's chaplet for thy brow to twine;
My verse thy talents to the world shall teach,
And praise the genius it despairs to reach.
Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art?
Can genius shield the vulnerable heart?
Ah, no! where bright imagination reigns,
The fine-wrought spirit feels acuter pains;
Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd,
There keener anguish rankles in the mind;
There, feeling is diffus'd through ev'ry part,
Thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the heart;
And those whose gen'rous souls each tear would keep
From others' eyes, are born themselves to weep.
Can all the boasted pow'rs of wit and song,
Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong?
Fallacious hope! which daily truths deride;
For you, alas! have wept, and Garrick died!
O shades of Hampton! witness, as I mourn,
Could wit or song elude your fav'rite's urn?
Though living virtue still your haunts endears,
Yet buried worth shall justify my tears.
Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment cool,
The errors of my orphan muse shall rule?
With keen acumen how his piercing eye
The fault conceal'd from vulgar view would spy!
While with a generous warmth he strove to hide,
Nay, vindicate the fault his taste had spied.
So pleas'd could he detect a happy line
That he would fancy merit ev'n in mine.
His wit so pointed it ne'er miss'd its end,
And so well temper'd it ne'er lost a friend;
How his keen eye, quick mind, and ardent heart,
Impov'rish'd nature, and exhausted art,
A muse of fire has sung, if muse could truce,
Or verse retrieve the evanescent grace!
How rival bards with rival statesmen strove,
Who most should gain his praise, or win his love!
Opposing parties to one point he drew,
Thus Tully's Atticus was Caesar's too.
Though time his mellowing hand across has stole,
Soft'ning the tints of sorrow on the soul;
The deep impression long my heart shall fill,
And ev'ry fainter trace be perfect still.
Forgive, my friend, if wounded memory melt,
You best can pardon who have deepest felt.
You, who for Britain's hero and your own,
The deadliest pang which reads the soul have known
You, who have found how much the feeling heart
Shapes its own wound, and points itself the dart;
You, who are call'd the varied loss to mourn;
You, who have clasp'd a son's untimely urn;
You, who from frequent fond experience feel
The wounds such minds receive can never heal;
That grief a thousand entrances can find,
Where parts superior dignify the mind;
Yet would you change that sense acute to gain
A dear-bought absence from the poignant pain;
Commuting ev'ry grief those feelings give,
In loveless, joyless apathy to live?
For though in souls where energies abound,
Pain through its numerous avenues can wound;
Yet the same avenues are open still,
To casual blessings as to casual ill.
Nor is the trembling temper more awake
To every wound calamity can make,
Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive
To ev'ry transport pleasure has to give.
Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain,
Their jests the tender anguish would profane.
Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind,
Whose low enjoyments never reach'd the mind;
Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have known,
Who ne'er have felt a sorrow but their own;
Who deem romantic ev'ry finer thought
Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought;
Whose insulated souls ne'er fuel the power
Of gen'rous sympathy's ecstatic hour;
Whose disconnected hearts ne'er taste the bliss
Extracted from mother's happiness;
Who ne'er the high heroic duty know,
For public good the private to forego.
Then wherefore happy? Where's the kindred mind?
Where the large soul which takes in human kind?
Yes — 'tis the untold sorrow to explain,
To mitigate the but suspected pain;
The rule of holy sympathy to keep,
Joy for the joyful, tears for them that weep:
To these the virtuous half their pleasures owe,
Pleasures, the selfish are not born to know;
They never know, in all their coarser bliss,
The sacred rapture of a pain like this.
Then take, ye happy vulgar, take your part
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart.
Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose,
Lest pausing prudence tempt her to refuse;
Friendship, which once determin'd, never swerves,
Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it serves;
And soft-ey'd pity, and forgiveness bland,
And melting charity with open hand;
And artless love, believing and believ'd,
And honest confidence which ne'er deceiv'd;
And mercy, stretching out ere want can speak,
To wipe the tear which stain's afiliction's cheek;
These ye have never known — then take your part
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart.
You who have melted in bright glory's flame,
Or felt the grateful breath of well-earn'd fame;
Or you, the chosen agents from above,
Whose bounty vindicates Almighty love;
You, who subdue the vain desire of show,
Not to accumulate, but to bestow;
You, who the dreary haunts of sorrow seek,
Raise the sunk heart, and flash the fading cheek;
You, who divide the joys and share the pains,
When merit triumphs, or oppress'd complains;
You who, with pensive Petrarch, love to mourn,
Or weave the garland for Tibulius' urn;
You, whose touch'd hearts with real sorrows swell,
Or feel, when genius paints those sorrows well,
Would you renounce such energies as these,
For vulgar pleasures, or for selfish ease?
Would you, to 'scape the pain, the joy forego,
And miss the transport to avoid the we?
Would you the sense of actual pity lose,
Or cease to share the mournings of the muse?
No, Greville, no! Thy song, though steep'd in tears,
Though all thy soul in all thy strain appears;
Yet wouldst thou all thy well-sung anguish choose,
And all th' inglorious peace thou begg'st, refuse.
And while discretion all our views should guide,
Beware, lest secret aims and ends she hide;
Though midst the crowd of virtues, 'tis her part,
Like a firm sentinel, to guard the heart;
Beware, lest Prudence self become unjust,
Who never was deceiv'd, I would not trust;
Prudence must never be suspicion's slave,
The world's wise man is more than half a knave.
And you, Boscawen, while you fondly melt
In raptures none but mothers ever felt;
And as you view, prophetic, in your race,
All Levison's sweetness, and all Beaufort's grace;
Yet dread what dangers each lov'd child may share,
The youth, if valiant, or the maid, if fair;
You who have felt, so frail is mortal joy!
That, while we clasp the phantom, we destroy;
That perils multiply as blessings flow,
That sorrows grafted on enjoyments grow;
That clouds impending dim our brightest views,
That who have most to love have most to lose;
Yet from these fair possessions would you part,
To shelter from contingent ills your heart?
Would you forego the objects of your prayer,
To save the dangers of a distant care?
Renounce the brightness op'ning to your view,
For all the safety dulness ever knew?
Would you consent, to shun the fears you prove,
That they should merit less, or you less love?
Yet while we claim the sympathy divine,
Which makes, O man, the woes of others thine;
While her fair triumphs swell the modish page,
She drives the sterner virtues from the stage:
While feeling boasts her ever-tearful eye,
Fair truth, firm faith, and manly justice fly:
Justice, prime good! from whose prolific law,
All worth, all virtue, their strong essence draw;
Justice, a grace quite obsolete we hold,
The feign'd Astrea of an age of gold:
The sterling attribute we scarcely own,
While spurious candour fills the vacant throne.
Sweet Sensibility! thou secret power
Who shed'st thy gifts upon the natal hour,
Like fairy favours; art can never seize,
Nor affectation catch thy power to please:
Thy subtle essence still eludes the chains
Of definition, and defeats her pains.
Sweet Sensibility! thou keen delight!
Unprompted moral! sudden sense of right!
Perception exquisite! fair virtue's seed!
Thou quick precursor of the lib'ral deed!
Thou hasty conscience! reason's blushing morn!
Instinctive kindness ere reflection's born!
Prompt sense of equity! to thee belongs
The swift redress of unexamin'd wrongs!
Eager to serve, the cause perhaps untried,
But always apt to choose the suff'ring side!
To those who know thee not, no words can paint,
And those who know thee, know all words are faint!
She does not feel thy pow'r who boasts thy flame,
And rounds her every period with thy name;
Nor she who vents her disproportion'd sighs
With pining Lesbia when her sparrow dies:
Nor she who melts when hapless Shore expires,
While real mis'ry unreliev'd retires!
Who thinks feign'd sorrows all her tears deserve,
And weeps o'er Werter while her children starve.
As words are but th' external marks to tell
The fair ideas in the mind that dwell;
And only are of things the outward sign,
And not the things themselves they but define;
So exclamations, tender tones, fond tears,
And all the graceful drapery feeling wears;
These are her garb, not her, they but express
Her form, her semblance, her appropriate dress;
And these fair marks, reluctant I relate,
These lovely symbols may be counterfeit.
There are, who fill with brilliant plaints the page,
If a poor linnet meet the ganner's rage;
There are, who for a dying fawn deplore,
As if friend, parent, country were no more;
Who boast quick rapture trembling in their eye,
If from the spider's snare they snatch a fly;
There are, whose well-sung plaints each breast inflame
And break all hearts — but his from whom they came!
He, scorning life's low duties to attend,
Writes odes on friendship, while he cheats his friend.
Of jails and punishments he grieves to hear,
And pensions 'prison'd virtue with a tear;
While unpaid bills his creditor presents,
And ruin'd innocence his crime laments.
Not so the tender moralist of Tweed,
His gen'rous Man of Feeling feels indeed.
O love divine! sole source of charity!
More dear one genuine dued perform'd for thee,
Than all the periods feeling e'er could turn,
Than all thy touching page, perverted Sterne!
Not that by deeds alone this love's express'd,
If so the affluent only were the bless'd;
One silent wish, one pray'r, one soothing word,
The page of mercy shall, well pleas'd, record;
One soul-felt sigh by pow'rless pity given,
Accepted incense! shall ascend to heav'n!
Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And though but few can serve, yet all may please;
O let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
To spread large bounties, though we wish in vain,
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain:
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With rank to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; yet lib'ral still,
Heaven gives its counterpoise to every ill;
Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers,
When kindness, love, and concord may be ours.
The gift of ministering to others' ease,
To all her sons impartial she decrees;
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flattery, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,
The angry word suppress'd, the taunting thought;
Subduing and subdued, the petty strife,
Which clouds the colour of domestic life;
The sober comfort, all the peace which springs
From the large aggregate of little things;
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of home depend:
There, Sensibility, thou best mayst reign,
Home is thy true legitimate domain.
A solitary bliss thou ne'er couldst find,
Thy joys with those thou lov'st are intertwin'd;
And he whose helpful tenderness removes
The rankling thorn which wounds the breast he loves
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,
But clears th' obstruction which impedes his own.
The hint malevolent, the look oblique,
The obvious satire, or implied dislike;
The sneer equivocal, the harsh reply,
And all the cruel language of the eye;
The artful injury, whose venom'd dart
Scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the heart;
The guarded phrase, whose meaning kills, yet told,
The list'ner wonders how you thought it cold;
Small slights, neglect, unmix'd perhaps with hate,
Make up in number what they want in weight.
These, and a thousand griefs minute as these,
Corrode our comfort and destroy our ease.
As feeling tends to good or leans to ill,
It gives fresh force to vice or principle;
'Tis not a gift peculiar to the good,
'Tis often but the virtue of the blood:
And what would seem compassion's moral flow,
Is but a circulation swift or slow:
But to divert it to its proper course,
There wisdom's power appears, there reason's force:
If ill directed it pursue the wrong,
It adds new strength to what before was strong;
Breaks out in wild irregular desires,
Disorder'd passions, and illicit fires;
Without, deforms the man, depraves within,
And makes the work of God the slave of sin.
But if religion's bias rule the soul,
Then sensibility exalts the whole;
Sheds its sweet sunshine on the moral part,
Nor wastes on fancy what should warm the heart.
Cold and inert the mental powers would lie,
Without this quick'ning spark of Deity.
To melt the rich materials from the mine,
To bid the mass of intellect refine,
To bend the firm, to animate the cold,
And Heaven's own image stamp on nature's gold;
To give immortal mind its finest tone,
Oh, Sensibility! is all thy own.
This is th' ethereal flame which lights and warms,
In song enchants us, and in action charms.
'Tis this that makes the pensive strains of Gray
Win to the open heart their easy way;
Makes the touch'd spirit glow with kindred fire,
When sweet Serena's poet wakes the Iyre:
Makes Portland's face its brightest rapture wear,
When her large bounty smooths the bed of care:
'Tis this that breathes through Sevigne's fair page,
That nameless grace which soothes a second age;
'Tis this, whose charms the soul resistless seize,
And gives Boscawen half her power to please.
Yet why those terrors? why that anxious care?
Since your last hope the deathful war will dare?
Why dread that energy of soul which leads
To dang'rous glory by heroic deeds?
Why mourn to view his ardent soul aspire?
You fear the son because you knew the sire.
Hereditary valour you deplore,
And dread, yet wish, to find one hero more.