He there builds up a formidable dyke
Between his own and others' intellect;
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect,
Are things which in this century don't strike
The public mind, so few are the elect;
And the new births of both their stale virginities
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities.
But let me to my story: I must own,
If I have any fault, it is digression ;
Leaving my people to proceed alone,
While I soliloquize beyond expression;
But these are my addresses from the throne,
Which puts off business to the ensuing session :
Forgetting each omission is a loss to
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto,
I know that what our ne'ghbours call" loungers,"
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing
In that complete perfection which ensures
An epic from Bob Southey every spring-)
Form not the true temptation which allures
The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring
Some fine examples of the epopée,
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.
We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps;
We feel without him: Wordsworth sometimes wakes,
To shew with what complacency he creeps,
With his dear " Waggoners" around his lakes;
He wishes for a boat to sail the deeps
Of ocean? No, of air; and then he makes
Another outcry for "a little boat,"
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.
If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain,
And Pegasus runs restive in his " waggon,"
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain?
Or pray Medea for a single dragon?
Or if too classic for his vulgar brain,
He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?
"Pedlars," and "boats," and " waggons!" Oh! ye shades
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?
That trash of such sort not alone evades
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scum like uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss
The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell,"
Can sneer at him who drew "
T'our tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover left alone
The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ;—
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-bymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirred with prayer.
1 Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove-
What though 'tis but a pictured image strike-
That painting is no idol, 'tis too like.
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,
In nameless print-that I have no devotion;
But set those persons down with me to pray,
And you shall see who has the properest notion
Of getting into heaven the shortest way;
My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars,-all that springs from the great Whole,
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!
The shrill Cicalas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echos, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng,
Which learn'df om this example not to fly.
From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.
[5] Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
[6] Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb; [7]
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done when pow'r
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.
But I'm digressing: what on earth has Nero,
Or any such-like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero,
More than such madmen's fellow man-the moon's?
Sure my invention must be down at Zero,
And I grown one of many "wooden spoons"
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please
To dub the last of honours in degrees).
I feel this tediousness will never do-
'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down
(In copying) this long canto into two;
They'll never find it out, unless I own
The fact, excepting some experienced few;
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown.
I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is
From Aristotle passim.-See Пointuens,
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