For lo! like Bajazet, to please the rout, The victors in, now turn the vanquish'd out.* Victors in vain!-them every month shall goad With keen epistle, and musquito ode ; Them, penitent too late of foul abuse, Shall grinning Satire from their dens produce; Them, angel Truth with radiant shafts assail, While Modesty destroys the sland'rous tale; Forgot each other butt of song severe, Them, piecemeal, shall his fury-pamphlets tear; For them shall he desert the weaker side, And, ev'n to kings a couplet be deny'd. Discomfited, deject, with bleeding brow, Some great revenge he plans, and frames the fall See the apostrophe in the Eneid on Pallas's learthern girdle being taken by Turnus, as Peter's cane was. * Et gemitu, fugit indignata sub Umbras. Virg. THE RETROSPECT. ADVERTISEMENT. DESCRIPTIVE Poetry, though certainly the fairest branch of the Parnassian laurel, has for some time past been most severely assaulted by the unmerciful axe of critical bigotry. This attack was commenced under the pretext of pruning its luxuriancy, but, in fact, has left it withered and bare. Our censorial colossus, the great Johnson (who possessed as much discernment, with as much frailty, as in general falls to the share of any one writer), has been, inadvertently, the author of this arbitrary degradation. It is, at least, countenanced by his austere reprehension of the Seasons. Indeed, his antipathy to this species of composition and to blank verse, was equally obstinate and unjust. Though its Greek derivation may comprehend a creative faculty, yet, we must allow that all Poetry is merely imitative. Even the sublime phantoms of Shakspeare, though by their eccentricity removed beyond the pale of human occurrence, are but copied from forms, supposed to have been seen, either by the bright intuitive eye of the enthusiast, or through the dim and discoloured optics of superstition. Nor is a fine delineation of nature very frequently less captivating than its original, for it necessarily must blend admiration with de light. We view with too slight emotion, as the work of Omnipotence, what we behold with astonishment, as the execution of man. Hence, we are charmed with the propriety, the connexion, and the striking assemblage of fictitious light and shade in some celebrated picture, at the same time that the reality, seldom regarded, is ever before our eyes. The powers of mind requisite for an attractive piece of description are not trivial; they must be ingenious, energetic, and refined. We likewise believe that an apposite description of scenes, novel from their remoteness, or pleasing from their congeniality, may have as much merit as what we style ethic, and which is only welcome from its similitude to the manners of the world. Our feelings are always more sincerely soothed, or elevated, with some welldesigned, though irregular landscape of Salvator Rosa, than with the most finished portrait of the most favourite master. After all our idle pursuits in life, that is, in busy, bustling life, there still remains some secret, endearing tie, which connects us to the mild enjoyments of the country, and even at the age of fourscore, we still dwell with fondness on the innocent raptures of fifteen. Few, however, are advocates for those puerile and jejune productions, where "Pure description holds the place of sense;" as narration is only capable of the most pathetic graces, when inserted with becoming elegance. It then approaches nearly to the didactic, which is at once improving and agreeable. It is to be lamented that the disesteem into which descriptive poesy has fallen, may have been caused by that neglect of simplicity in diction and plan, which so shamefully marks the flimsy effusions of the present day. The crude and turgid eclogues of Sannazarius, Mantuan, and the modern Italian school, are as much unlike the unaffected majesty and noble sweetness of Virgil, as many of our late applauded efforts are unlike the strong and masculine beauties of our literary fathers. There are but two peremptory exceptions in either age. Vida in Italy, and Goldsmith in England. To simplicity the French have no pretensions, their forte lies another way, in the poignancy of epigram, and the ironical adroitness of satire. We, however, have taken every commendable care of their poetical tinsel; we have unburthened them of their jau d'esprits, and more prudently transplanted them into our more elaborate pages, either philosophic or religious. It is necessary to premise that the following verses, were, strange as it may appear, composed during an expedition at sea. This will elucidate some allusions, otherwise not easily understood, and, perhaps, palliate that deficiency of lucid order, which must immediately be discerned. It is no trifling labour to induce the Nine to forsake their Helicon for salt water, though Venus herself had the honour to be cradled on the ocean. In recompence for this material objection, an endeavour has been made, to introduce some views of rural misfortune, as well as of felicity, which, doubtless, will engage the attention of a feeling breast. The latch too has been opened on unassisted penury, expiring, without one charitable hand to succour or solace the moment of annihilation; amidst the horrors of a tempestuous night, and the still more afflicting ideas of a little family, left crying for food and by depicting the flagitiousness of mercenary passion in its most odious colours, the transports of real love have been pourtrayed, founded on the sympathy of hearts, in the most amiable light. The want, however, of formal connection, dazzling figures, metaphoric phrase, and metaphysical scruple, will easily be perceived ; "Yet tho' depriv'd of instruments like these, Nature, perhaps, may find a way to please; Which, wheresoe'er she glows with genuine flame, "In Greece, in Rome, in England, is the same." LLOYD A DEDICATORY SONNET To the Right Honourable THE COUNTESS OF MOIRA, &c. DEEM'ST Thou ingrate or dead the Shepherd-boy, Smiling in tears, will languishingly steal Oh! save them from the Critic's cruel blight! THOMAS DERMODY, |