Classic Poem

YES , yes — there are, my friend, whose skilful pen
Would manage poets just like other men;
Their spirits bind by rules of common sense,
And make them reckon right their pounds and pence.
Ah! just restraint! ah! soul-directing rules,
More wise, more friendly, than the lore of schools.
And, yet, if statesmen err in common things,
Statesmen, the representatives of Kings;
If financiers may sometimes count amiss,
And Princes falsely rate a nation's bliss.
If schools, where science sits enthron'd in state,
Have called e'en minus plus, and little great;
While prelates, senators, go sometimes wrong,
Ah! who shall blame too much the child of song?

Enough — better the present to endure,
Than pore on wrongs, and not provide a cure.
I too could wish, nor need the wish be vain,
That nor imagin'd woes, nor real pain,
Might be the poet's lot; nor fortune's frown
Keep the proud tow'rings of his genius down:
That who has learn'd the poet's art, to please,
Might, if not move in splendour, sing at ease;
View undisturb'd life's pageantry pass by,
Paint what he saw, and without murm'ring die.
This honest wish first led me to relate,
In simple, hasty rhymes, the Poet 's F ATE :
To answer sneer, best answer, with a sneer,
Whether to pedant, coxcomb, or to peer;
To point at genius, as I pass'd along;
I ask'd no pension for my humble song.

Oh! when I trace man's nature, end, and aim,
Whether he toil for wealth, or pant for fame,
Or arts delight, or glory rouse to arms,
Or pleasure soften with her syren charms;
Whate'er his genius lead him to pursue,
Or conscience prompt, or warn him not, to do,
Still, as the planets round one centre run,
And catch a living lustre from the sun;
Thus onward move the restless tribes of man,
And keep, thro' different paths, one common plan.
To bliss still moves each instinct of the soul,
Passion's soft melting, Reason's grave controul;
Ev'n wayward Mis'ry wishes to be blest,
Ev'n Folly, wandering far, still looks to rest.
Nature but acts the sweet musician's part,
And strikes each chord, that vibrates on the heart;
While such, as burn with true poetic fire,
Aim to excite in all, what all desire;
Their art's perfection this, their proudest lore,
To touch the strings, that Nature touch'd before;
With skill to touch, and bear the soul along
With all th' enchanting ravishment of song.

Or when I read the list of human woes,
The treach'rous friendships, the more open foes,
The hope's fair blossoms, doom'd in dust to lie,
The full-blown joys, that do but smile and die;
The silent cares, the fancy's vision'd sight
Of ills, which while conceal'd, the more affright;
And, pitying, view the short-liv'd creature man,
Fond to crop all the little sweets he can,
All that may calm the pang of secret grief,
Wake the short glow, and yield the light relief;
Who knows to act the kind physician's part,
And raise to pleasure e'en the wounded heart,
On him may heav'ns most kindly beams descend,
For he is human nature's watchful friend:
And such the poet's task, to soothe the breast,
And lull with magic hand the cares to rest.

Yet, know, who hope the noble prize to gain,
Reach at, what few, though thousands seek, attain.
'Tis not enough some feeble thought to nurse,
Or weave soft nonsense into flimsy verse:
Who proudly hopes to wreathe the living-lay,
Is born from heav'n, a soul of purest ray,
Feels like some god within the sacred fire,
And rapture listens, while he strikes the lyre;
From art and nature every charm must seize,
And live content, if he but learn to please:
His first great wish, to earn the poet's name,
His loftier hope, to live in future fame.

Ah! will not this suffice? Then plough the feas,
For anxious riches barter learned ease;
To thee let India all her stores unfold,
Wake but for wealth, and only dream of gold;
Then like Avarus, hoard, and dream, and plan,
Or, like Orbilio, brutalize the man;
Or bask, at pleasure's call, in loose delight,
Sport all the day, and riot all the night;
Speed time's light wings, as young Lorenzo gay,
Ah! frailest trifler through life's little day;
Or scale yon height, at mad ambition's call,
And climb, where thousands only climb, to fall.
From pride's rough steep, like Caefar headlong hurl'd,
The school-boy's tale, though vulture of the world.

It will not do — no — 'tis decreed by fate,
Thus wide the difference of the good and great,
That such, whose breasts with noblest ardour glow,
What Folly craves, should proudly dare forego;
Hence, such as aim'd to raise the stately rhyme,
Have seen, unenvying, fierce ambition climb,
Seen avarice delve in mines, nor yet repin'd,
Prouder, and wealthier, in the stores of mind.

And, what if Wealth has sometimes courted fame,
By vain alliance with the poet's name?
Yet Genius to itself true glory brings,
And might be ruin'd by the smile of kings;
Spin silken lies, or weave a flimsy lay,
Bartering soft nonsense for a hireling's pay;
Till the town wonders, who's the greatest fool,
The noble patron, or his rhyming tool.

Peace to the man, to fortune while unknown,
That owes his vigour to himself alone,
Enriching others, though of nought possest,
And blessing, though he seem himself unblest.
Round the broad oak let feeble ivy twine,
And round th' umbrageous elm the slender vine;
The faint exotic in the green-house thrive,
And, but when rear'd like feeble nurslings live;
Yet feed the gayest flowers on heav'n's own dew,
And catch from genial suns their boldest hue;
Nature's high voice proclaims the region blest,
And Beauty crops the sweetness for her breast.

Happy the man, whom moderate joys invite,
Wisdom his treasure, song his dear delight,
Serenely cheerful, if not proudly gay,
Who every upstart craving drives away.
Should (for the sylvan scene is wont to please,
Whom nature charms, and soft poetic ease,)
Should he through native fields, and fav'rite groves;
Find the retreat of more than fabled loves;
Study and toil, an ever constant pair,
Protect his haunts, and still each busy care.
His the neat cottage, his the frugal board,
That crave supply from no resplendent hoard;
Genius requires what nature not denies,
And Taste but asks what Prudence well supplies.

What tho' no high triumphal arch arise,
Nor towering column catch inquiring eyes;
Nor mansion boast Palladio's great design,
Nor deck'd in grace of Grecian order shine?
What though nor Pembroke's statues grace thy hall,
Nor Argyle's tapestry adorn thy wall,
Nor Browne's light-labour'd spruceness smiles, display'd
In all the pride of lawn, the pomp of shade?
Her spark'ling gems to thee not India sends,
Nor Italy her mimic arts commends,
Nor shelves with Roxburgh's, Spencer's lustre shine,
Nor Crachrode's, Wodhull's, Hollis', stores are thine?
Ah! what avails? — For thee shall nature pour,
From copious urn, a never-wasting store;
Give thee, (ah! dare not thou the gift disdain)
The pregnant mind, the fancy's richest vein,
Teach thee within how small a circle lies,
What forms the truly good, the truly wise;
That noblest joy is gain'd at light expence,
And prodigality is want of sense;
That life's blest current calmly glides along,
While simple means inspire the proudest song.

But, know, the man, whom I aspire to praise,
And high above the vulgar crowd to raise,
Must not o'er murm'ring stream still sigh and weep,
Nor chain'd by sloth, in daisied meadows sleep,
Nor stretch'd at length, distract the fields and groves
With fancied wrongs, and visionary loves,
Weary with sheepish plaints the ear of day,
And worry nymphs and swains with woeful lay,
Till forms phantastic craze an empty brain,
And languor knows not its own flimsy strain.

No — if thy soul delight in sylvan shade,
Scorn not the plough, the mattock, and the spade,
But seize each instrument of rustic life,
And keep off envy, penury, and strife;
Protect thy flock, and learn the care of bees,
And plant with fostering hand the tender trees,
Lop the luxuriance of the mantling vine,
And in gay splendour bid the garden shine.
Let art to nature skilful aid supply,
And happy graffs delight the watchful eye;
Nor scorn at times the labours of the field,
The loitering steer to guide, the fork to wield;
Here let the net its subtle thread display,
And here the scarecrow drive the birds away.

Thus as the smiling seasons circling roll,
Strong in resource, and provident of soul,
Range thro' thy lands, and watch the infant grain,
The guide and glory of the past'ral train;
So round thy fields may heav'n propitious smile,
And a rich harvest crown thy honest toil.