CONTEMPORARY POETS. Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbel With poets almost Clergymen, or wholly; Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, Still he excels that artificial hard Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine; Then there's my gentle Euphues; who, they say, To turn out both, or either, it may be. Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* The list grows long of live and dead pretenders Their chances; they're too numerous, like the thirty • "Divina particulum auræ." WORLDLY WEALTH. Why call the miser miserable? as The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial; Then there's more merit in his self-denial. He is your only poet;-passion, pure, And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure : On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. The lands on either side are his: the ship From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip; Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip; His very cellars might be kings' abodes; While he, despising every sensual call, Commands-the intellectual lord of all. Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, Even with the very ore which makes them base; But whether all, or each, or none of these What is his own? Go-look at each transaction, Wars, revels, love-do these bring men more ease Than the mere plodding through each "vulgar fraction?" Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser ! How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests Weigh not the thin ore where their visage snines, But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp :Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. "Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,-for love Is heaven, and heaven is love :"- -so sings the bard; Which it were rather difficult to prove, (A thing with poetry in general hard). Perhaps there may be something in "the grove," MATCH-MAKING. How all the needy honourable misters, Nay, married dames will now and then discover I've known them court an heiress for their lover. "Tantæne!" Such the virtues of high station, Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet's "Dover!" While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen. 'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, (Friends of the party,) who begin accusals, "Why?-Why? Besides, Fred really was attach'd; Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives, QUIXOTISM. Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, For my part I am but a mere spectator, But neither love nor hate in much excess; Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, It is because I cannot well do less, And now and then it also suits my rhymes. I should be very willing to redress Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. Of all tales 'tis the saddest-and more sad, Redressing injury, revenging wrong, To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; Opposing singly the united strong, From foreign yoke to free the helpless native :Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, A jest, a riddle, Fame through thick and thin sought! And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote? Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, The world gave ground before her bright array; Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. HUMAN MOTIVES. I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; I hate it as I hate an argument, A laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content." "Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, They are so much intertwisted with the earth; To trace all actions to their secret springs And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. TRUTH. 'Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange; How much would novels gain by the exchange! If some Columbus of the moral seas What "antres vast and deserts idle" then Of those who hold the kingdoms in control! |