by Lord Byron
His anguish doubling by his own “encore;” 310
Squeezed in “Fop’s Alley,” jostled by the beaux,
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes;
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease,
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release:
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess? —
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress!
So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools;
Give us but fiddlers, and they’re sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk,
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?) 320
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm’ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known,
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan,
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low,
’Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place,
Oaths, boxing, begging — all, save rout and race.
Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime,
In ever-laughing Foote’s fantastic time: 330
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best,
And turned some very serious things to jest.
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the Gown — Priests — Lawyers — Volunteers:
”Alas, poor Yorick!” now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.
We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens,
When “Crononhotonthologos must die,”
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 340
Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit,
And smile at folly, if we can’t at wit;
Yes, Friend! for thee I’ll quit my cynic cell,
And bear Swift’s motto, “Vive la bagatelle!”
Which charmed our days in each Ægean clime,
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past,
Soothe thy Life’s scenes, nor leave thee in the last;
But find in thine — like pagan Plato’s bed,
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead. 350
Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes,
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies;
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance;
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, whose polished pen inveighs
’Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays;
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains,
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o’er the stage — we’ve time for tears at home; 360
Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen’s brows,
And Estifania gull her “Copper” spouse;
The moral’s scant — but that may be excused,
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis’ skill;
Aye, but Macheath’s example — psha! — no more!
It formed no thieves — the thief was formed before;
And spite of puritans and Collier’s curse,
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 370
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men!
Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again.
But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal?
Can heavenly Mercy dwell with earthly Zeal?
For times of fire and faggot let them hope!
Times dear alike to puritan or Pope.
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze,
So would new sects on newer victims gaze.
E’en now the songs of Solyma begin;
Faith cants, perplexed apologist of Sin! 380
While the Lord’s servant chastens whom he loves,
And Simeon kicks, where Baxter only “shoves.”
Whom Nature guides, so writes, that every dunce ,
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once;
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails ,
And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails.
Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope?
Yet his and Philips’ faults, of different kind,
For Art too rude, for Nature too refined, 390
Instruct how hard the medium ‘tis to hit
’Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit.
A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste;
The dirty language, and the noisome jest,
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest;
Proscribed not only in the world polite ,
But even too nasty for a City Knight!
Peace to Swift’s faults! his wit hath made them pass,
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras! 400
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet,
Who from our couplet lopped two final feet;
Nor less in merit than the longer line,
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine.
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain
Formed, save in Ode, to bear a serious strain ,
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight,
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far
Heroic rhyme, but most in Love and War, 410
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime,
Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme.
But many a skilful judge abhors to see,
What few admire — irregularity.
This some vouchsafe to pardon; but ‘tis hard
When such a word contents a British Bard.
And must the Bard his glowing thoughts confine,
Lest Censure hover o’er some faulty line?
Remove whate’er a critic may suspect,
To gain the paltry suffrage of “Correct”? 420
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase,
To fly from Error, not to merit Praise?
Ye, who seek finished models, never cease ,
By day and night, to read the works of Greece.
But our good Fathers never bent their brains
To heathen Greek, content with native strains.
The few who read a page, or used a pen,
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben;
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste
Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste; 430
Yet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules,
It will not do to call our Fathers fools!
Though you and I, who eruditely know
To separate the elegant and low,
Can also, when a hobbling line appears,
Detect with fingers — in default of ears.
In sooth I do not know, or greatly care
To learn, who our first English strollers were;
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art,
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 440
But this is certain, since our Shakespeare’s days,
There’s pomp enough — if little else — in plays;
Nor will Melpomene ascend her Throne
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone.
Old Comedies still meet with much applause,
Though too licentious for dramatic laws;
At least, we moderns, wisely, ‘
tis confest,
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest .
Whate’er their follies, and their faults beside,
Our enterprising Bards pass nought untried; 450
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose
An English subject for an English Muse,
And leave to minds which never dare invent
French flippancy and German sentiment.
Where is that living language which could claim
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame,
If all our Bards, more patient of delay,
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way?
Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults
O’erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults , 460
Who soon detect, and mark where’er we fail,
And prove our marble with too nice a nail!
Democritus himself was not so bad;
He only ‘thought’ — but ‘you’ would make us — mad!
But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard
Against that ridicule they deem so hard;
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth,
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth;
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet,
And walk in alleys rather than the street. 470
With little rhyme, less reason, if you please,
The name of Poet may be got with ease,
So that not tuns of helleboric juice
Shall ever turn your head to any use;
Write but like Wordsworth — live beside a lake,
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake;
Then print your book, once more return to town,
And boys shall hunt your Bardship up and down.
Am I not wise, if such some poets’ plight,
To purge in spring — like Bayes — before I write? 480
If this precaution softened not my bile,
I know no scribbler with a madder style;
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice)
I cannot purchase Fame at such a price,
I’ll labour gratis as a grinders’ wheel,
And, blunt myself, give edge to other’s steel,
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art
To those rehearsing for the Poet’s part;
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, ,
And from my own example — what is wrong. 490
Though modern practice sometimes differs quite,
’Tis just as well to think before you write;
Let every book that suits your theme be read,
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head.
He who has learned the duty which he owes
To friends and country, and to pardon foes;
Who models his deportment as may best
Accord with Brother, Sire, or Stranger-guest;
Who takes our Laws and Worship as they are,
Nor roars reform for Senate, Church, and Bar; 500
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise,
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize:
Such is the man the Poet should rehearse,
As joint exemplar of his life and verse.
Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told,
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold
A longer empire o’er the public mind
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined.
Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days
The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 510
Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts
With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts.
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel
To “Long and Short” before they’re taught to spell)
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote,
”A penny saved, my lad, ‘s a penny got.”
Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take
The third, how much will the remainder make? —
”A groat.” — ”Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum!
He’ll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum.” 520
They whose young souls receive this rust betimes,
’Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes;
And Locke will tell you, that the father’s right
Who hides all verses from his children’s sight;
For Poets (says this Sage , and many more,)
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore:
And Delphi now, however rich of old,
Discovers little silver, and less gold,
Because Parnassus, though a Mount divine,
Is poor as Irus, or an Irish mine. 530
Two objects always should the Poet move,
Or one or both, — to please or to improve.
Whate’er you teach, be brief, if you design
For our remembrance your didactic line;
Redundance places Memory on the rack,
For brains may be o’erloaded, like the back.
Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth,
And fairy fables bubble none but youth:
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales,
Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales! 540
Young men with aught but Elegance dispense;
Maturer years require a little Sense.
To end at once: — that Bard for all is fit
Who mingles well instruction with his wit;
For him Reviews shall smile; for him o’erflow
The patronage of Paternoster-row;
His book, with Longman’s liberal aid, shall pass
(Who ne’er despises books that bring him brass);
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead,
And cross St. George’s Channel and the Tweed. 550
But every thing has faults, nor is’t unknown
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone,
And wayward voices, at their owner’s call,
With all his best endeavours, only squall;
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,
And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark.
Where frequent beauties strike the reader’s view,
We must not quarrel for a blot or two;
But pardon equally to books or men,
The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen. 560
Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend,
Despises all advice too much to mend,
But ever twangs the same discordant string,
Give him no quarter, howsoe’er he sing.
Let Havard’s fate o’ertake him, who, for once,
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce:
At first none deemed it his; but when his name
Announced the fact — what then? — it lost its fame.
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze,
In a long work ‘tis fair to steal repose. 570
As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand
The critic eye, and please when near at hand;
But others at a distance strike the sight;
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light,
Nor dreads the connoisseur’s fastidious view,
But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new.
Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice,
Hath led to listen to the Muse’s voice,
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise;
Few reach the Summit which before you lies. 580
Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede
Reward to very moderate heads indeed!
In these plain common sense will travel far;
All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar:
But Poesy between the best and worst
No medium knows; you must be last or first;
For middling Poets’ miserable volumes
Are damned alike by Gods, and Men, and Columns.
Again, my Jeffrey — as that sound inspires,
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 590
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel,
Or mild Eclectics, when some, worse than Turks,
Would rob poor Faith to decorate “Good Works.”
Such are the genial feelings them canst claim —
My Falcon flies not at ignoble game.
Mightiest of all Dunedin’s beasts of chase!
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace.
Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 600
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns,
”Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes.”
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign
A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine?
Dear d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs,
Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood’s wrongs?
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed,
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed?
What! not a word! — and am I then so low?
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 610
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent?
No wit for Nobles, Dunces by descent?
No jest on “minors,” quibbles on a name,
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame?
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood,
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood?
On shore of Euxine or Ægean sea,
My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee.
Ah! let me cease! in vain my bosom burns,
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns: 620
Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego,
Nor woo that anger which he will not show.
What then? — Edina starves some lanker son,
To write an article thou canst not shun;
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found,
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned.
As if at table some discordant dish,
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish;
As oil in lieu of butter men decry,
And poppies please not in a modern pie; 630
If all such mixtures then be half a crime,
We must have Excellence to relish rhyme.
Mere roast and boiled no Epicure invites;
Thus Poetry disgusts, or else delights.
Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun:
Will he who swims not to the river run?
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box.