Modern Parnassus; or, The New Art of Poetry/Part 1
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MODERN PARNASSUS;
OR, THE
NEW ART OF POETRY.
PART I.
THE REFORMATION.
ARGUMENT.
Happy Change of Times—Courtesy of modern Readers—Ancient Edict repealed—Subsequent Increase of Poets—Fate of Codrus bewailed—Reputation of Poets dependent on the Age in which they live.
GONE are those unblest times, when niggard Fame
Allow'd to few the Poet's sacred name;
When Genius, trembling with unmanly fear,
Claim'd not the wreath, which he deserv'd to wear,
Till nine long years[1] had lent their tedious aid,
To touch the forms his magic hand pourtray'd;
When Athens heard her pensive son display
His boast, of three immortal lines a day;
When Maro doom'd, with his expiring sigh,
Troy's second glory, like the first, to die;
Afraid, as he had held the lyre so long,
Lest some rude note had marr'd the matchless song:
Gone are those unblest times, for ever flown,
Which bade the Poet wear a hard-earn'd crown,
See glorious days arise, a golden age,
Which calls to fame the humbler minstrel's page.
Bound by no rules, the courteous reader now
Is pleas'd, he knows not why, and cares not how.
Call'd to partake the plain but plenteous feast,
He loves his host, a cheerful grateful guest;
Nor asks a richer sauce, a choicer bowl,
To lure the taste, or raise th' exhausted soul.
With easy change, he breathes the tender sigh,
Or melts to tears, or wakes to ecstacy,
At every author's bidding[2], and repays,
With loud acclaim, e'en Bloomfield's lowly lays.
Too just to wish, that all who boast a lyre,
Thunder'd with Milton's voice, or flash'd with Shakspear's fire.
'Tis order'd, in the ancient critic code,
Half up Parnassus, none shall find abode[3].
If thou canst gain the mountain's topmost brow,
Then tempt the steep, or else remain below.
"Critics, and Gods, and Columns," all agree,
In strictest league, t' enforce the harsh decree.
We bold reformers laugh the creed to scorn,
By which old times would bind the times unborn;
We mock the terrors, which, in darker age,
Appall'd the Bard, and curb'd his gen'rous rage;
And, bless'd with clearer light; annul the law,
Which Greece pronounc'd, and Latium heard with awe.
The midway track, at length redeem'd from scorn,
The guards disbanded, and the fences torn,
Our brighter æra consecrates the soil,
And bids the panting Bard here end his toil.
Why farther strive, o'er Alpine heights to rise,
To win, what here is won, the laureate prize?
Behold what myriads rush and claim the ground!
Their lyres new strung, their brows with chaplets crown'd.
Here tott'ring age and jocund youth repair,
Here flock, in num'rous bands, the gentle fair;
Here, glitt'ring rank and low-born labour join,
And, side by side, peal forth the echoing line.
In artless mood, no nurse or tutor near,
E'en childhood lisps spontaneous numbers here.
Whene'er you list, fresh voices rend the air,
Where'er you turn, a choral crowd is there.
The Heav'n, the Rocks, the waving Groves reply;
'Tis one grand orchestra of varied minstrelsy.
Ah! if these Bards had fall'n on other times,
The haughty Muse had spurn'd their proffer'd rhymes,
Had scourg'd them down her mountain's hallow'd side,
Their lyres all broken, and their wreaths untied;
In mute distress, had lock'd each tuneful tongue,
And Earth had miss'd full many a well known song.
Allow'd to few the Poet's sacred name;
When Genius, trembling with unmanly fear,
Claim'd not the wreath, which he deserv'd to wear,
Till nine long years[1] had lent their tedious aid,
To touch the forms his magic hand pourtray'd;
When Athens heard her pensive son display
His boast, of three immortal lines a day;
When Maro doom'd, with his expiring sigh,
Troy's second glory, like the first, to die;
Afraid, as he had held the lyre so long,
Lest some rude note had marr'd the matchless song:
Gone are those unblest times, for ever flown,
Which bade the Poet wear a hard-earn'd crown,
See glorious days arise, a golden age,
Which calls to fame the humbler minstrel's page.
Bound by no rules, the courteous reader now
Is pleas'd, he knows not why, and cares not how.
Call'd to partake the plain but plenteous feast,
He loves his host, a cheerful grateful guest;
Nor asks a richer sauce, a choicer bowl,
To lure the taste, or raise th' exhausted soul.
With easy change, he breathes the tender sigh,
Or melts to tears, or wakes to ecstacy,
At every author's bidding[2], and repays,
With loud acclaim, e'en Bloomfield's lowly lays.
Too just to wish, that all who boast a lyre,
Thunder'd with Milton's voice, or flash'd with Shakspear's fire.
'Tis order'd, in the ancient critic code,
Half up Parnassus, none shall find abode[3].
If thou canst gain the mountain's topmost brow,
Then tempt the steep, or else remain below.
"Critics, and Gods, and Columns," all agree,
In strictest league, t' enforce the harsh decree.
We bold reformers laugh the creed to scorn,
By which old times would bind the times unborn;
We mock the terrors, which, in darker age,
Appall'd the Bard, and curb'd his gen'rous rage;
And, bless'd with clearer light; annul the law,
Which Greece pronounc'd, and Latium heard with awe.
The midway track, at length redeem'd from scorn,
The guards disbanded, and the fences torn,
Our brighter æra consecrates the soil,
And bids the panting Bard here end his toil.
Why farther strive, o'er Alpine heights to rise,
To win, what here is won, the laureate prize?
Behold what myriads rush and claim the ground!
Their lyres new strung, their brows with chaplets crown'd.
Here tott'ring age and jocund youth repair,
Here flock, in num'rous bands, the gentle fair;
Here, glitt'ring rank and low-born labour join,
And, side by side, peal forth the echoing line.
In artless mood, no nurse or tutor near,
E'en childhood lisps spontaneous numbers here.
Whene'er you list, fresh voices rend the air,
Where'er you turn, a choral crowd is there.
The Heav'n, the Rocks, the waving Groves reply;
'Tis one grand orchestra of varied minstrelsy.
Ah! if these Bards had fall'n on other times,
The haughty Muse had spurn'd their proffer'd rhymes,
Had scourg'd them down her mountain's hallow'd side,
Their lyres all broken, and their wreaths untied;
In mute distress, had lock'd each tuneful tongue,
And Earth had miss'd full many a well known song.
In early days, when Codrus, hapless name!
Rais'd his bold voice, and sung of Theseus' fame,
While brethren Bards, with lyres of equal string,
Made Fronto's plains and marble arches ring;
'Twas not enough, the Muse despis'd their strains,
She doom'd the culprits to her heaviest pains,
Who dar'd, without the true Promethean fire,
Infest her bow'rs and tempt her dang'rous lyre.
Their epics, odes, and elegies unknown,
Of all the vocal host, one name alone;
Immortal Codrus lives, to tell their crime,
And blaze their punishment to latest time.
If hapless Codrus, and that injur'd band[4],
Reserv'd by Fate, now grac'd our favour'd land;
Whose rapture would prevail, 'tis hard to say,
Theirs who rehears'd, or ours who heard the lay.
They proud to sing, and we well pleas'd to hear,
The willing voice would find the patient ear,
By mutual compact they would furnish lays,
And we the large return of grateful praise.
Thus on an earlier or a later date,
By strange caprice, is hung the Poet's fate.
Minstrels once loath'd and stigmatiz'd with shame,
Born in our days, had soar'd to heights of fame;
And those whose verse enchants this gentle age,
The ancient Muse had lash'd with fiercest rage.
Rais'd his bold voice, and sung of Theseus' fame,
While brethren Bards, with lyres of equal string,
Made Fronto's plains and marble arches ring;
'Twas not enough, the Muse despis'd their strains,
She doom'd the culprits to her heaviest pains,
Who dar'd, without the true Promethean fire,
Infest her bow'rs and tempt her dang'rous lyre.
Their epics, odes, and elegies unknown,
Of all the vocal host, one name alone;
Immortal Codrus lives, to tell their crime,
And blaze their punishment to latest time.
If hapless Codrus, and that injur'd band[4],
Reserv'd by Fate, now grac'd our favour'd land;
Whose rapture would prevail, 'tis hard to say,
Theirs who rehears'd, or ours who heard the lay.
They proud to sing, and we well pleas'd to hear,
The willing voice would find the patient ear,
By mutual compact they would furnish lays,
And we the large return of grateful praise.
Thus on an earlier or a later date,
By strange caprice, is hung the Poet's fate.
Minstrels once loath'd and stigmatiz'd with shame,
Born in our days, had soar'd to heights of fame;
And those whose verse enchants this gentle age,
The ancient Muse had lash'd with fiercest rage.
- ↑ The time prescribed by Horace for suppressing a composition for the purpose of improvement, is somewhat abridged by Vida; but, according to the latter, it is at least three years.Tuque adeo vitæ usque memor brevioris, ubi annos
Post aliquot (neque enim numerum, neque tempora pono
Certa tibi) addideris decoris satis atque nitoris;
Rumpe moras, opus ingentem dimitte per orbem
Perque manus, perque ora virúm, permitte vagari.
Poet. lib. iii, 520. - ↑ It must be allowed that this generous determination to be pleased was not wholly unknown in former times; but it was never hailed with equal acclamation, and was soon ill naturedly laughed out of countenance.. . . . . . Ainsi qu'en sots auteurs,
Notre siècle est fertile en sots admirateurs:
Et sans ceux que fournit la ville et la province,
Tl en est chez le duc, il en est chez le prince.
L'ouvrage le plus plat a, chez les courtisans,
De tout temps rencontré de zélés partisans;
Et pour finir enfin par un trait de satire,
Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.
Boileau, L'Art. Poet. ch. i. - ↑ It is truly astonishing to observe what pains were taken by the poetical critics of the ancient school to enforce this doctrine, as if they had foreseen with envy that their posterity would one day or other throw off the yoke. Monsieur Boileau is not satisfied, like Horace and Pope, with a single mention of it, but brings it forward in two places.Et ne savez-vous pas, que sur ce mont sacré,
Qui ne vole au sommet, tombe au plus bas dégré:
Et qu'à moins d'etre au rang d'Horace, ou de Voiture,
On rampe dans la fange avec l'Abbé de Pure?.
Sat. ix, 24.Il est dans tout autre art des dégrés differens.
On peut avec honneur remplir les seconds rangs:
Mais dans l'art dangereux de rimer et d'écrire,
Il n'est point de dégrés du médiocre au pire,
Les vers ne souffrent point de médiocre auteur,
Ses ecrits en tous lieux sont l'effroi du lecteur,
L'Art. Poet. ch. iv. - ↑ The account of these unfortunate poets is found in opening page of Juvenal, and is thus most effectually forced upon the notice of every reader. He who has seen only the first fourteen lines of that unmerciful satirist, knows their unhappy fate. One seems to have laboured most abundantly for fame. The Orestes, we are told, filled an immense volume, first written from beginning to end, then as close as possible over the margin of every page, anf finally on the covers and even the back. Yet, after all, it was only a fragment.. . . . . summi plenâ jam margine libri
Scriptus et in tergo, necdum finitus Orestes.