The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems Part 3

Alas, my friend, had I been such, Had I that fat and meaty skull, Those bloated cheeks, and eyes so dull, That driv'ling mouth, and bottle nose, Those shambling legs, and gouty toes; Thus form'd to snore throughout the day,-- And eat and drink the night away; I ne'er had felt the fev'rish flame That caus'd my b.l.o.o.d.y thirst for fame; Nor madly claim'd immortal birth, Because the vilest brute on Earth: And, oh! I'd not been doom'd to hear, Still whizzing in my blister'd ear, The curses deep, in d.a.m.ning peals, That rose from 'neath my chariot wheels, When I along the embattled plain With furious triumph crush'd the slain: I should not thus be doom'd to see, In every shape of agony, The victims of my cruel wrath, For ever dying, strew my path; The grinding teeth, the lips awry, The inflated nose, the starting eye, The mangled bodies writhing round, Like serpents, on the b.l.o.o.d.y ground; I should not thus for ever seem A charnel house, and scent the steam Of black, fermenting, putrid gore, Rank oozing through each burning pore; Behold, as on a dungeon wall, The worms upon my body crawl, The which, if I would brush away, Around my clammy fingers play, And, twining fast with many a coil, In loathsome sport my labor foil.

Enough! the frighted Painter cried, And hung his head in fallen pride.

Not so the other. He, of stuff More stubborn, ne'er would cry enough; But like a soundly cudgell'd oak, More st.u.r.dy grew at every stroke, And thus again his ready tongue With fluent logick would have rung: My Lord, I'll prove, or I'm a liar-- Whom interrupting then with ire, Thus check'd the Judge: Oh, proud yet mean!

And canst thou hope from me to screen Thy foolish heart, and o'er it spread A veil to cheat th' omniscient dead?

And canst thou hope, as once on Earth, Applause to gain by specious worth; Like those that still by sneer and taunt Would prove pernicious what they want; And claim the mastership of Art, Because thou only know'st a _part_?

Had'st thou from Nature, not the Schools Distorted by pedantic rules, With patience wrought, such logic vain Had ne'er perverted thus thy brain: For Genius never gave delight By means of what offends the sight: Nor hadst thou deem'd, with folly mad, Thou could'st to Nature's beauties _add_, By _taking from her that which gives The best a.s.surance that she lives; By imperfection give attraction, And multiply them by subtraction._

Did Raffaelle thus, whose honour'd ghost Is now Elysium's fairest boast?

Far diff'rent He. Though weak and lame In parts that gave to others fame, Yet sought not _he_ by such defect To swindle praise for _wise neglect_ Of _vulgar_ charms, that only _blind_ The dazzled eye to those of Mind.

By Heaven impressed with Genius' seal, An eye to see, and heart to feel, His soul through boundless Nature rov'd, And seeing felt, and feeling lov'd.

But weak the power of mind at will To give the hand the painter's skill; For mortal works, maturing slow, From patient care and labour flow: And hence restrain'd, his youthful hand Obey'd a master's dull command; But soon with health his sickly style From Leonardo learn'd to smile; And now from Bonarroti caught A n.o.bler Form; and now it sought Of colour fair the magic spell, And trac'd her to the Friar's[6] cell.

No foolish pride, no narrow rule Enslav'd his soul; from every School, Whatever fair, whatever grand, His pencil, like a potent wand, Transfusing, bade his canva.s.s grace.

Progressive thus, with giant pace.

And energy no toil could tame, He climb'd the rugged mount of Fame: And soon had reach'd the summit bold, When Death, who there delights to hold His fatal watch, with envious blow Quick hurl'd him to the shades below.

Thus check'd the Judge the champion vain Of _Cla.s.sic Form_; and thus in strain, By anger half and pity mov'd, The ghostly Colourist reprov'd.

And what didst _Thou_ aspire to gain, _Who_ dar'd'st the will of Jove arraign, That bounded thus within a span The little life of little man; With shallow art deriving thence Excuses for thy indolence?

'Tis cant and hypocritic stuff!

The life of man is long enough: For did he but the half improve He would not quarrel thus with Jove.

But most I marvel (if it be That aught may wond'rous seem to me) That Jove's high Gift, your n.o.ble Art, Bestow'd to raise Man's grov'ling heart, Refining with ethereal ray Each gross and selfish thought away, Should pander turn of paltry pelf, Imprisoning each within himself; Or like a gorgeous serpent, be Your splendid source of misery, And, crushing with his burnish'd folds, Still narrower make your narrow souls.

But words can ne'er reform produce, In Ignorance and Pride obtuse.

Then know, ye rain and foolish Pair!

Your doom is fix'd a yoke to bear Like beasts on Earth; and, thus in tether, Five Centuries to paint together.

If, thus by mutual labours join'd, Your jarring souls should be combin'd, The faults of each the other mending, The powers of both harmonious blending; Great Jove, perhaps, in gracious vein, May send your souls on Earth again; Yet there One only Painter be; For thus the eternal Fates decree: One Leg alone shall never run, Nor two Half-Painters make but One.

Eccentricity.

Projecere animas. VIRG.

Alas, my friend! what hope have I of fame, Who am, as Nature made me, still the same?

And thou, poor suitor to a bankrupt muse, How mad thy toil, how arrogant thy views!

What though endued with Genius' power to move The magick chords of sympathy and love, The painter's eye, the poet's fervid heart, The tongue of eloquence, the vital art Of bold Prometheus, kindling at command With breathing life the labours of his hand; Yet shall the World thy daring high pretence With scorn deride, for thou--hast common sense.

But dost thou, reckless of stern honour's laws, Intemperate hunger for the World's applause?

Bid Nature hence; her fresh embow'ring woods, Her lawns and fields, and rocks, and rushing floods, And limpid lakes, and health-exhaling soil, Elastick gales, and all the glorious toil Of Heaven's own hand, with courtly shame discard, And Fame shall triumph in her city bard.

Then, pent secure in some commodious lane, Where stagnant Darkness holds her morbid reign.

Perchance snug-roosted o'er some brazier's den, Or stall of nymphs, by courtesy _not_ men, Whose gentle trade to skin the living eel, The while they curse it that it dares to feel[7]; Whilst ribbald jokes and repartees proclaim Their happy triumph o'er the sense of shame: Thy city Muse invoke, that imp of mind By smoke engendered on an eastern wind; Then, half-awake, thy patent-thinking pen The paper give, and blot the souls of men.

The time has been when Nature's simple face Perennial youth possessed and winning grace; But who shall dare, in this refining age, With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?

What polish'd lover, unappall'd by sneers Dare court a beldame of six thousand years, When every clown with microscopick eyes The gaping furrows on her forehead spies?-- 'Good sir, your pardon: In her naked state, Her wither'd form we cannot chuse but hate; But fashion's art the waste of time repairs, Each wrinkle fills, and dies her silver hairs; Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms low; We cannot chuse but love what's _comme il faut_.'

Thy city Muse invoke, that imp of mind By smoke engender'd on an eastern wind; Then, half-awake, thy patent-thinking pen The paper give, and blot the souls of men.

The time has been when Nature's simple face Perennial youth possessed and winning grace; But who shall dare, in this refining age, With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?

What polish'd lover, unappall'd by sneers, Dare court a beldame of six thousand years, When every clown with microscopick eyes The gaping furrows on her forehead spies?-- 'Good sir, your pardon: In her naked state, Her withered form we cannot chuse but hate; But fashion's art the waste of time repairs, Each wrinkle fills, and dies her silver hairs; Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms low; We cannot chuse but love what's _comme il fauts_.'

Alas, poor Cowper! could thy chasten'd eye, (Awhile forgetful of thy joys on high) Revisit earth, what indignation strange Would sting thee to behold the courtly change!

Here "velvet" lawns, there "plushy" woods that lave Their "silken" tresses in the "gla.s.sy" wave; Here "'broider'd" meads, there flow'ry "carpets" spread, And "downy" banks to "pillow" Nature's head; How wouldst thou start to find thy native soil.

Like birth-day belle, by gross mechanick toil Trick'd out to charm with meretricious air, As though all France and Manchester were there!

But this were luxury, were bliss refin'd, To view the alter'd region of the mind; Where whim and mystery, like wizards, rule, And conjure wisdom from the seeming fool; Where learned heads, like old cremonas, boast Their merit soundest that are cracked the most; While Genius' self, infected with the joke, His person decks with Folly's motley cloak.

Behold, loud-rattling like a thousand drums, Eccentrick Hal, the child of Nature, comes!

Of Nature once--but _now_ he acts a part, And Hal is now the full grown boy of art.

In youth's pure spring his high impetuous soul Nor custom own'd nor fashion's vile control.

By Truth impelled where beck'ning Nature led, Through life he mov'd with firm elastic tread; But soon the world, with wonder-teeming eyes, His manners mark, and goggle with surprise.

"He's wond'rous strange!" exclaims each gaping clod, "A wond'rous genius, for he's wond'rous odd!"

Where'er he goes, there goes before his fame, And courts and taverns echo round his name; 'Till, fairly knocked by admiration down, The petted monster cracks his wond'rous crown.

No longer now to simple Nature true, He studies only to be oddly new; Whate'er he does, whatever he deigns to say, Must all be said and done the oddest way; Nay, e'en in dress eccentrick as in thought, His wardrobe seems by Lapland witches wrought, Himself by goblins in a whirlwind drest With rags of clouds from Hecla's stormy crest.

'Has Truth no charms?' When first beheld, I grant, But, wanting novelty, has every want: For pleasure's thrill the sickly palate flies, Save haply pungent with a rare surprise.

The humble toad that leaps her nightly round, The harmless tenant of the garden ground, Is loath'd, abhor'd, nay, all the reptile race Together join'd were never half so base; Yet snugly find her in some quarry pent, Through ages doom'd to one tremendous lent, Surviving still, as if "in Nature's spite,"

Without or nourishment, or air, or light, What raptures then th' astonish'd gazer seize!

What lovely creature like a toad can please!

Hence many an oaf, by Nature doom'd to shine The unknown father of an unknown line, If haply shipwreck'd on some desert sh.o.r.e Of Folly's seas, by man untrod before, Which, bleak and barren, to the starving mind Yields nought but fog, or damp, unwholesome wind, With loud applause the wond'ring world shall hail, And Fame embalm him in the marv'lous tale.

With chest erect, and bright uplifted eye, On tiptoe rais'd, like one prepared to fly.

Yon wight behold, whose sole aspiring hope Eccentrick soars to catch the hangman's rope.

In order rang'd, with date of place and time, Each owner's name, his parentage and crime, High on his walls, inscribed to glorious shame, Unnumber'd halters gibbet him to Fame.

Who next appears thus stalking by his side?

Why that is one who'd sooner die than--ride!

No inch of ground can maps unheard of show Untrac'd by him, unknown to every toe: As if intent this punning age to suit, The globe's circ.u.mf'rence meas'ring by the foot.

Nor less renown'd whom stars invet'rate doom To smiles eternal, or eternal gloom; For what's a _character_ save one confin'd To some unchanging sameness of the mind; To some strange, fix'd monotony of mien, Or dress forever brown, forever green?

A sample comes. Observe his sombre face, Twin-born with Death, without his brother's grace!

No joy in mirth his soul perverted knows, Whose only joy to tell of others' woes.

A fractur'd limb, a conflagrating fire, A name or fortune lost his tongue inspire: From house to house where'er misfortunes press, Like Fate, he roams, and revels in distress; In every ear with dismal boding moans-- walking register of sighs and groans!

High tow'ring next, as he'd eclipse the moon, With pride upblown, behold yon live balloon.

All trades above, all sciences and arts, To fame he climbs through very scorn of parts; With solemn emptiness distends his state, And, great in nothing, soars above the great; Nay stranger still, through apathy of blood, By candour number'd with the chaste and good: With wife, and child, domestic, stranger, friend, Alike he lives, as though his being's end Were o'er his house like formal guest to roam, And walk abroad to leave himself at home.

But who is _he_, that sweet obliging youth?

He looks the picture of ingenuous truth.

Oh, that's his antipode, of courteous race, The man of bows and ever-smiling face.

Why Nature made him, or for what design'd, Never he knew, nor ever sought to find, 'Till cunning came, blest harbinger of ease!

And kindly whisper'd, 'thou wert born to please.'

Rous'd by the news, behold him now expand, Like beaten gold, and glitter o'er the land.

Well stored with nods and sly approving winks, Now first with this and now with that he thinks; Howe'er opposing, still a.s.sents to each, And claps a dovetail to each b.o.o.by's speech.