To rescue poesy from every fool,
And break the privilege of being dull.
How many a blockhead, with undoubted might,
Has borne the laurels of the wordy fight,
Who free from taste, true elegance, or wit,
Has rack'd his well-squeezed numskull while he writ;
Or, low'ring high in Grub-street's airy site,
Spent for a wretched pun the livelong night?
How many a genius, taught to nobler views,
Endow'd with every blessing of the muse,
Through fortune's frown, or by some patron's curse,
Has lost ignobly both the palm and purse?
Witness a Smart,* to hast'ning ills a prey,
The greedy dun unmindful of his say:
On Cam's smooth brink the Nine their fav'rite led,
Yet, ah! how destitute of praise, and bread!
Some mind congenial may espouse his cause,
Some mind above the critic's meaner laws.
But what avails the plaudit of the few,
If they their empty praise alone renew?
The dark-brow'd bookseller's auspicious smile,
Excels their talk, and soothes the author's toil;
For spite of all our high-brain'd tricks, the muse
Must sip more solid food than slight Castalian dews.
* At that time it was Dermody's intention to have given a complete collection of Smart's poems; their merit is very well known.
Witness a Brooke, whose pen could once assert
The patriot's right, and warm each lib'ral heart;
How sunk his fame, with every honour dead!
How all his glory's living-lustre fled!
Taught to despise the envious crowd that swill
Coarse rapture from the Heliconian rill,
He knew the minstrel's duty to attend,
Nor in the close observer lose the friend:
Yet ah! how low the echo of his name!
How dumb the trump of canonizing fame!
Thus far, my Berwick,* have I strain'd the theme,
While friendship's energy exalts the flame.
O thou, my patron, my resplendent pride,
Guide my weak bark across the boist'rous tide;
Allay the blasts of malice, while the gale
Of fav'ring rapture swells my little sail;
And, oh! if e'er tow'rds danger's rock stray,
Chide my fond sonl, and point the surer way;
While, proudly rising o'er the foaming flood,
I steer exulting with the great and good.
The Reverend Mr. Berwick, then chaplain to the Countess of Moira. To this gentleman Dermody has paid no fulsome compliment, for his kindness to him in a singular case requires a much stronger assertion of gratitude. When friendship turned with the tide of fashion and party, he alone remained immoveable to its arbitrary command, and supported the title of a real friend.
Nor thou despise the shepherd's first essay,
Who decks with rigid rules his rural lay;
For though the reed was e'er unwont to sound
The court's gay talents and its gaudy round,
Yet by degrees a nobler note may swell:
First we must meditate, and then excel.
Those who with nice disgust, and envy sharp,
Start at the uncouth tinkling of my harp;
Let them (for such there are) attaint my bays,
And scoff at youthful glory's dawning rays;
Let them the hour of noon-tide radiance wait,
And kneel before the sun that they must hate.
The bard how blameful who neglects himself,
While fed for silence or by pride or pelf;
Who casts the rod of satire quite aside,
And gives to greatness what a god supply'd !
Enough for me (for I defy the great-
I mean the abject vassals of the state),
That princely Rawdon* will my lay peruse;
Rawdon, who guards the poet and his muse.
• Those great personages, eminent in their respective stations, are too much admired to admit of any peculiar commendation here. They were unwearied patrons of the unfortunate Dermody, while he lived. Their encouragement to genius is admired, but seldom
Enough for me that Moira deigns to clear,
The clouds of malice magnified by fear;
Which round my head their foul contagion flung,
While party's fiends yell'd louder as I sung.
Enough for me, that you review my toil
With partial warmth, and friendship's glowing smile.
Here let me pay to worth a tribute due:
To Boyd+ who bade my artless soul pursue
True learning's track, with viny wreaths o'erbung;
Who form'd the first faint accents of my tongue;
Who mark'd with classic neatness each weak line,
And bade bold nature's dregs to wit refine.
He the best teacher of the song sublime,
For he himself can "build the lofty rhime."
Nor has his page escap'd the ken of Fame,
His page anneal'd with Alghieri's name.
From Tuscan shores his muse exulting flies,
And draws a train of light aslant the skies;
† The reverend Hugh Boyd. The amiable character of this worthy gentleman, deserves as much praise as can be offered to merit and benevolence. Dermody esteemed it one of the happiest circumstances of his life, that he had received (though indeed but for a short time) his instructions, in matters of classical, poetical, and theological tendency. He is the author and translator of many classical and esteemed works; and till Dante shall cease to charm, the name of Boyd will be revered by the lovers of poesy.
With fierce Orlando's martial fame returns,
While ev'ry breast with expectation burns.
Again Astolfo's horn shall swell the line;
Again Rinaldo's prowess grow divine;
Again whole turms* display the glitt'ring shield,
And murder stalk o'er Ronscesvallis' field.
Proceed; thou best, last bard, proceed,
And at Fame's temple claim thy glorious meed;
Claim the best meed to real merit due,
And the great tale of Eugene'st acts pursue;
The wondrous story weave in fancy's loom,
And let the wizard dyes eternal bloom ;
Give to the hero all the hero asks,
And crown with lasting rapture all thy tasks;
So shall I once thy full-grown honours see,
Nor blush to boast that I have sung for thee.
† Eugene, a poem, which reflects honour on Ireland, both as the production and the subject are of its growth.
|