Modern Parnassus; or, The New Art of Poetry/Part 5
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PART V.
THE APOLOGY.
Unum hoc, per si qua est victis venia.
Æn. lib. x. ad fin.
Æn. lib. x. ad fin.
ARGUMENT.
The Author's Reason for writing—Excuse for deviating from the Modern Form—Early Prejudices at School and at College—He deprecates the Displeasure of Modern Critics.
BOLD, by th' indulgence of these courteous times,
I seize the lyre, and chant my maiden rhymes.
Though Art disown me, and the fertile vein
Of mother-wit forsake my feeble strain,
Though Critics threaten, friends approve me not,
My verse old fashion'd and without a plot;
In spite of Art, in frowning Nature's spite,
In spite of all, I still resolve to write.
I snatch th' auspicious moment, while I may,
Secure of glory, pour the welcome lay.
Thousands will hear, and grant th' approving smile,
The haughty few may vent their spleen the while,[1]
I seize the lyre, and chant my maiden rhymes.
Though Art disown me, and the fertile vein
Of mother-wit forsake my feeble strain,
Though Critics threaten, friends approve me not,
My verse old fashion'd and without a plot;
In spite of Art, in frowning Nature's spite,
In spite of all, I still resolve to write.
I snatch th' auspicious moment, while I may,
Secure of glory, pour the welcome lay.
Thousands will hear, and grant th' approving smile,
The haughty few may vent their spleen the while,[1]
Yet, wise reformers of our cloudless days,
I crave your pardon, while I court your praise.
The eye, unveil'd at once to floods of light,
Demands some time to clear the dazzled sight.
Bred in the ancient faith, my heart still feels
Some rev'rence for the creed your zeal repeals.
I crave your pardon, while I court your praise.
The eye, unveil'd at once to floods of light,
Demands some time to clear the dazzled sight.
Bred in the ancient faith, my heart still feels
Some rev'rence for the creed your zeal repeals.
A much lov'd Tutor taught my youth the page,
Which sings the fierceness of Achilles' rage[2];
His labours taught whom Fate compell'd to roam,
From Troy's burnt tow'rs, to seek an unknown home.
And oft, of sport beguil'd, in secret hour,
Dryden and Pope! I own'd your mighty pow'r:
And thine, great Bard! whose heavenly muse display'd,
Man's first offence, and Eden's bow'rs betray'd.
Isis then saw me tread, with willing feet,
Her winding banks, the Muses' lov'd retreat.
Here hoary Science taught me to compare
Truth's genuine light with Falshood's outward glare:
Gave me to scan each ancient sage's theme,
Zeno's stern rule, and Plato's learned dream.
Here, too, with letter'd friends, of heart sincere,
Unknown to fame, but not to me less dear;
Whom Heav'n still spares to bless my riper days,
Kind in their blame, and honest in their praise;
Full oft I lov'd to sooth the weary hour,
And lose the toil of Thought in Friendship's pow'r.
Ere yet soft Eve had clos'd the summer day,
Or gloomy Winter trimm'd the taper's ray,
Learning withdrew, his bow with care unstrung,
And the gay hall with lively converse rung.
"Pray what new work to day?" "Another strain!"
"The author? subject? title? style? explain"
"Soft, soft my friend, go ask some brib'd Review,
"And then to Fame's third Heav'n the Bard pursue.
"Oh, if another Judge, of spotless name,
"Could try his merits and award his fame;
"Could Flaccus wake from Death's unbroken sleep,
"The Judge would laugh—the Modern Bard would weep."
Thus train'd in doctrines of th' exploded school,
I judg'd of modern song by ancient rule.
If Horace told me, that the verse should flow
Concise and clear, I thought it must be so.
If he advis'd, to choose each theme with care,
As genius prompts, or as our strength will bear;
The man, who scarce a birthday ode could frame,
Yet dar'd an epic, was, I thought, to blame.
If he declar'd, it was the Poet's art
T' inform the judgment[3] and improve the heart,
I shunn'd the Muse, which strove, with atheist song[4],
To stab the wretched and corrupt the young.
By his advice, I disapprov'd the lay,
Where sparkling tropes in wild confusion play.
With him, and all the wise of ages past,
I held, that grandeur differ'd from bombast;
That he, who fears to launch into the deep,
Is often tame, and makes his readers sleep;
That graceful ease and vigor should combine,
To stamp the full perfection of the line;
That clear arrangement, like the light of day,
Gives light, and life, and beauty to the lay.
Won by the verse and lore of ancient time,
Beguild in youth, amus'd in manhood's prime;
'Iis surely venial, if my heart retains
Some ling'ring fondness for those matchless strains;
If, while I bow before the Muse's shrine,
And at her feet present my humble line,
Some cherish'd relic of the once lov'd song
Defile the off'ring, and affront the throng.
Which sings the fierceness of Achilles' rage[2];
His labours taught whom Fate compell'd to roam,
From Troy's burnt tow'rs, to seek an unknown home.
And oft, of sport beguil'd, in secret hour,
Dryden and Pope! I own'd your mighty pow'r:
And thine, great Bard! whose heavenly muse display'd,
Man's first offence, and Eden's bow'rs betray'd.
Isis then saw me tread, with willing feet,
Her winding banks, the Muses' lov'd retreat.
Here hoary Science taught me to compare
Truth's genuine light with Falshood's outward glare:
Gave me to scan each ancient sage's theme,
Zeno's stern rule, and Plato's learned dream.
Here, too, with letter'd friends, of heart sincere,
Unknown to fame, but not to me less dear;
Whom Heav'n still spares to bless my riper days,
Kind in their blame, and honest in their praise;
Full oft I lov'd to sooth the weary hour,
And lose the toil of Thought in Friendship's pow'r.
Ere yet soft Eve had clos'd the summer day,
Or gloomy Winter trimm'd the taper's ray,
Learning withdrew, his bow with care unstrung,
And the gay hall with lively converse rung.
"Pray what new work to day?" "Another strain!"
"The author? subject? title? style? explain"
"Soft, soft my friend, go ask some brib'd Review,
"And then to Fame's third Heav'n the Bard pursue.
"Oh, if another Judge, of spotless name,
"Could try his merits and award his fame;
"Could Flaccus wake from Death's unbroken sleep,
"The Judge would laugh—the Modern Bard would weep."
Thus train'd in doctrines of th' exploded school,
I judg'd of modern song by ancient rule.
If Horace told me, that the verse should flow
Concise and clear, I thought it must be so.
If he advis'd, to choose each theme with care,
As genius prompts, or as our strength will bear;
The man, who scarce a birthday ode could frame,
Yet dar'd an epic, was, I thought, to blame.
If he declar'd, it was the Poet's art
T' inform the judgment[3] and improve the heart,
I shunn'd the Muse, which strove, with atheist song[4],
To stab the wretched and corrupt the young.
By his advice, I disapprov'd the lay,
Where sparkling tropes in wild confusion play.
With him, and all the wise of ages past,
I held, that grandeur differ'd from bombast;
That he, who fears to launch into the deep,
Is often tame, and makes his readers sleep;
That graceful ease and vigor should combine,
To stamp the full perfection of the line;
That clear arrangement, like the light of day,
Gives light, and life, and beauty to the lay.
Won by the verse and lore of ancient time,
Beguild in youth, amus'd in manhood's prime;
'Iis surely venial, if my heart retains
Some ling'ring fondness for those matchless strains;
If, while I bow before the Muse's shrine,
And at her feet present my humble line,
Some cherish'd relic of the once lov'd song
Defile the off'ring, and affront the throng.
THE END.
C. WOOD, Printer,
Poppin's Court, Fleet Street.
- ↑ If I were desired to give the most instruction in the fewest words, to the poetical student, I should say, reverse the ancient maxims, as in the present instance.. . . . neque te ut miretur turba, labores
Contentus paucis lectoribus . . . . .
Plotius et Varius, Mæcenas, &c.
Hor, lib. i, sat. x, ad fin. - ↑ Exactly the same system of education, it will be observed, as prevailed in ancient times, and calculated to instil the same prejudices.Romæ nutriri mihi contigit atque doceri,
Iratus Graiis quantum nocuisset Achilles.
Adjecêre bonæ paullo plus artis Athenæ;
Scilicet ut possem curvo dignoscere rectum,
Atque inter sylvas Academi quærere verum.
Hor. Ep. lib. ii, 2. - ↑ . . . . . . orientia tempora notis
Instruit exemplis; inopem solatur et aegrum;
Castis cum pueris ignara puella mariti
Disceret unde preces, vatem ni Musa dedisset.
Hor. Ep. lib. ii, 1. - ↑ Lord Byron covets the glory of being chiefly distinguished in the overthrow of this poetical canon; otherwise it might possibly survive the destruction of the rest. His lordship seems, however, to have had the twofold ambition of overthrowing the canons for wit, as well as poetry. His glory would be doubled, if, besides his exploits in verse, he could teach mankind to admire a species of wit, utterly unknown to Rabelais, and to him, who is named by the French Rabelais perfectionné, by the English, Dean Swift. I subjoin a specimen of the witticisms recommended by the noble lord's example. If I estimate it rightly, it dispenses with the difficulty of providing point, and seasonableness of introduction, and novelty. In the last confession of the Giaour, the attention of the reader is drawn from the hero of the tale to attend to the following observations of the author: "The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length, (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent,) and was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers."