Modern Parnassus; or, The New Art of Poetry/Part 3
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PART III.
POETIC LICENCE.
. . . teneor patriæ nec legibus ullis.
Æn. lib. ii. 158.
Æn. lib. ii. 158.
ARGUMENT.
Licence circumscribed by Ancient Critics—Unlimited now—Choice of Rhymes—Pleas for Poets—Contrast of Ancient Inhumanity with Modern Sensibility.
OFT the bold Minstrel shuns each vulgar theme,
The Hero's exploit and the Lover's dream,
And from th' unfathom'd deep of Nature draws
Her hidden wonders, and unveils her laws.
E'en those stern mandates, which condemn'd the Bard
To years of labour for a late reward,
Allow, midst harshest threats and heaviest woes,
A gleam of mercy here to interpose.
As if some Draco, drench'd with legal blood,
For one soft hour forgot his tyrant mood.
When Science woos the Muse, his mystic lore
May with new words increase the ancient store[1].
Or, so the charter runs, may claim the aid
Of borrow'd speech, from distant climes convey'd[2].
His native tongue enrich'd, too poor alone,
Shines with new strength and beauties not its own.
The Hero's exploit and the Lover's dream,
And from th' unfathom'd deep of Nature draws
Her hidden wonders, and unveils her laws.
E'en those stern mandates, which condemn'd the Bard
To years of labour for a late reward,
Allow, midst harshest threats and heaviest woes,
A gleam of mercy here to interpose.
As if some Draco, drench'd with legal blood,
For one soft hour forgot his tyrant mood.
When Science woos the Muse, his mystic lore
May with new words increase the ancient store[1].
Or, so the charter runs, may claim the aid
Of borrow'd speech, from distant climes convey'd[2].
His native tongue enrich'd, too poor alone,
Shines with new strength and beauties not its own.
This was but glimm'ring dawn. Our glorious day
Grants ev'ry licence now, to ev'ry lay.
Britons admit no rule, but their desire;
They brook not slav'ry, even in the lyre.
Free as the mountain breeze their numbers flow,
And nor in word nor thought a barrier know.
Above all law, the Muse of modern song,
By high prerogative, can do no wrong,
Minstrel, whate'er the subject of thy strain,
Be it severe or gay, abstruse or plain,
With easy choice, select at will thy rhyme,
Or from domestic or from foreign clime.
Is loyalty thy theme? The patriot lay,
In Spanish notes, may chaunt "Viva el Rey[3]."
Is love thy subject? Let the dying swain,
To "pale Phingari's trembling light," complain[4].
Would'st thou array thy hero in a coat?
Albania's sons will lend "the white capote[5]."
To grace the arches of a sacred aisle,
France gives "a fleurs de lys, or a quatre feuille[6]."
Our language, like our merchandize, demands
Perpetual tribute, from a thousand lands.
When harshest style with meanest thoughts is join'd,
Some plaintive plea subdues the reader's mind.
The Bard, perchance, is young, o'erwhelm'd with fears;
Forgive his faults, and spare his tender years.
Or want, not will, inspires his tuneful rage[7];
'Tis alms to buy—you need not read the page.
Or love[8] has led his gentle mind astray,
From humble prose, to tempt the arduous lay.
Perchance, surviving friends deplore his doom,
And print his strains to grace th' untimely tomb.
Can Censure rail against the recent dead?
Is Pity deaf when mourning parents plead?
If one soft plea the public favour gain,
And from disgrace protect the vilest strain,
Oh say, what honours may that Bard require,
In whose sad lot all pleas at once conspire;
Who, young, enamour'd, poor, and almost dead,
Writes for his fame, his mistress, and his bread.
Grants ev'ry licence now, to ev'ry lay.
Britons admit no rule, but their desire;
They brook not slav'ry, even in the lyre.
Free as the mountain breeze their numbers flow,
And nor in word nor thought a barrier know.
Above all law, the Muse of modern song,
By high prerogative, can do no wrong,
Minstrel, whate'er the subject of thy strain,
Be it severe or gay, abstruse or plain,
With easy choice, select at will thy rhyme,
Or from domestic or from foreign clime.
Is loyalty thy theme? The patriot lay,
In Spanish notes, may chaunt "Viva el Rey[3]."
Is love thy subject? Let the dying swain,
To "pale Phingari's trembling light," complain[4].
Would'st thou array thy hero in a coat?
Albania's sons will lend "the white capote[5]."
To grace the arches of a sacred aisle,
France gives "a fleurs de lys, or a quatre feuille[6]."
Our language, like our merchandize, demands
Perpetual tribute, from a thousand lands.
When harshest style with meanest thoughts is join'd,
Some plaintive plea subdues the reader's mind.
The Bard, perchance, is young, o'erwhelm'd with fears;
Forgive his faults, and spare his tender years.
Or want, not will, inspires his tuneful rage[7];
'Tis alms to buy—you need not read the page.
Or love[8] has led his gentle mind astray,
From humble prose, to tempt the arduous lay.
Perchance, surviving friends deplore his doom,
And print his strains to grace th' untimely tomb.
Can Censure rail against the recent dead?
Is Pity deaf when mourning parents plead?
If one soft plea the public favour gain,
And from disgrace protect the vilest strain,
Oh say, what honours may that Bard require,
In whose sad lot all pleas at once conspire;
Who, young, enamour'd, poor, and almost dead,
Writes for his fame, his mistress, and his bread.
Man feels for man by partnership of woe,
For human suff'rings, human tears will flow.
Of all distresses, none more wounds the heart,
Than his, who plies in vain the minstrel's art.
Better to pine in want, or writhe in pain,
Than pour, on listless ears, th' unheeded strain.
Yet, for his faults, how strong soe'er the plea,
Or youth, or love, or death, or penury,
No pity touch'd the ancient Muse's breast;
She own'd the worthy few, and scorn'd the rest.
Our gentle times, more true to Nature's plan,
Excuse the poet while we love the man.
O'er ev'ry fault, the decent veil we throw,
Nor vent the blame, which seals another's woe.
For human suff'rings, human tears will flow.
Of all distresses, none more wounds the heart,
Than his, who plies in vain the minstrel's art.
Better to pine in want, or writhe in pain,
Than pour, on listless ears, th' unheeded strain.
Yet, for his faults, how strong soe'er the plea,
Or youth, or love, or death, or penury,
No pity touch'd the ancient Muse's breast;
She own'd the worthy few, and scorn'd the rest.
Our gentle times, more true to Nature's plan,
Excuse the poet while we love the man.
O'er ev'ry fault, the decent veil we throw,
Nor vent the blame, which seals another's woe.
- ↑ . . . . . .Si forte necesse est,
Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rarum,
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis,
Continget, dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.
Hor. ep. ad pis. - ↑ Usque adeo patriae tibi si penuria vocis
Obstabit, fas Grajugenûm felicibus oris
Devehere informem massam, quam incude Latina
Informans patrium jubeas ediscere morem.
Vid. Poet. lib, iii, 272. - ↑ How carols now the lusty muleteer?
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay?
As whilom he was wont the leagues to cheer,
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
No, as he speeds he chaunts "Viva el Rey."
Childe Har. can, i, 43. - ↑ But others say, that on that night,
By pale Phingari's trembling light,
The Giaour, upon his jet black steed,
Was seen. . . . . . .
Giaour, 467. - ↑ And pensive o'er his scattered flock
The little shepherd, in his white capote,
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock.
&c. &c. &c.
Childe Har. can. ii, 51. - ↑ The darken'd roof, rose high aloof,
On pillars lofty, light, and small.
The keystone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleurs de lys, or a quatre feuille,
Lay of the Last Minstrel, can. ii. - ↑ Poverty, so far from being formerly a recommendation to the courtesy of the reader, was regarded, with some cruelty, as a disqualification for writing poetry at all.Bishop Hall speaks with most unepiscopal harshness of those, whose want urges them to write mean verses.Quis locus ingenio: nisi cum se carmine solo
Vexant, et dominis Cirrhæ Nisæque feruntur
Pectora nostra, duas non admittentia curas?
Magnæ mentis opus, nec de lodice parandâ
Attonitæ, currus et equos facies que Deorum
Aspicere, &c. &c.
Juv. sat. vii, 65.Such hunger-starven, trencher poetry,
Or let it never live or timely die.
Pratt's edit., page 284. - ↑ A countryman of our own has celebrated the effect of "Two or three love letters writ all in rhymes;" nor has the circumstance been left unnoticed by an ancient professor in the art of gaining the affections of a mistress.At facies teneræ ut laudata est sæpe puellæ,
Ad vatem, pretium carminis, ipsa venit.
Ovid, Amor, lib. ii.