The Poetical Works of James Beattie
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Title: The Poetical Works of James Beattie
Author: James Beattie
Contributor: Alexander Dyce
Release date: January 2, 2013 [eBook #41760]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF JAMES BEATTIE ***
THE POEMS OF BEATTIE.
[Illustration: J. Beattie.]
THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
JAMES BEATTIE.
WITH A
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR,
BY REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.
BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY.
NEW YORK:
EVANS AND DICKERSON.
PHILADELPHIA:
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO AND COMPANY.
M.DCCC.LIV.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
STEREOTYPED BY STONE AND SMART.
CONTENTS.
Page
Memoir of Beattie, by the Rev. Alexander Dyce vii
The Minstrel; or, the Progress of Genius, Book I 7
The Minstrel; or, the Progress of Genius, Book II 35
Retirement 61
Elegy written in the year 1758 64
Ode to Hope 67
Ode on Lord Hay's Birthday 72
The Battle of the Pigmies and Cranes, from the
Pygmæogeranomachia of Addison 76
The Hares, a Fable 88
Epitaph; being part of an Inscription designed for a
Monument erected by a Gentleman to the Memory of his Lady 92
The Hermit 92
PIECES REJECTED BY THE AUTHOR FROM THE LATER EDITIONS OF HIS POEMS.
The Judgment of Paris 97
Ode to Peace 120
The Triumph of Melancholy 126
Elegy 136
Elegy 138
The Wolf and Shepherds 141
On the Report of a Monument to be erected in Westminster
Abbey, to the Memory of a late Author 145
Song, in Imitation of Shakspeare's 'Blow, Blow, thou
winter wind' 153
Epitaph on two young Men of the name of Leitch, who
were drowned in crossing the River Southesk, 1757 154
Epitaph intended for himself 155
Verses written by Mr. Blacklock, on a blank leaf of his
Poems, sent to the Author 156
An Epistle to the Rev. Mr. Thomas Blacklock 157
To the Rt. Hon. Lady Charlotte Gordon, dressed in a
Tartan Scotch Bonnet, with Plumes 166
Anacreon, Ode XXII. 167
The beginning of the First Book of Lucretius 167
Horace, Book II. Ode X. 170
Book III. Ode XIII. 171
Virgil, Pastoral I. 178
II. 179
III. 184
IV. 194
V. 198
VI. 205
VII. 210
VIII. 216
IX. 223
X. 229
Epitaph for a Sheriff's Messenger, written and published at
the particular desire of the Person for whom it is intended 234
To Mr. Alexander Ross, at Lochlee, Author of 'The Fortunate
Shepherdess,' and other Poems in the broad Scotch Dialect 235
MEMOIR OF BEATTIE,
BY THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.
"Heard you that Hermit's strain from Scotia borne,
'For virtue lost, and ruin'd man I mourn?'
Who may forget thee, Beattie? who supply
The tale half-told of Edwin's minstrelsy?"
_The Pursuits of Literature._
The subject of this memoir was born on the 25th of October, 1735, at
Laurencekirk, in the county of Kincardine, Scotland. His father, James
Beattie, who kept a small shop in the village at the same time that he
rented a little farm in the neighbourhood, was a man of considerable
talents and acquirements:[A] his mother, too, was distinguished for her
abilities. Our author, James, was the youngest of the six children of
this respectable pair.
After his father's decease, which happened when he was only seven years
old, his mother, by means of the emoluments derived from the shop and
the farm, was enabled to bring up her family in comfort. In the
management of her affairs she was assisted by her eldest son, David, a
youth of eighteen, who generously and affectionately relinquished all
other pursuits for that of promoting her welfare and happiness, and who
appears to have fostered his brothers and sisters with an almost
parental care. James was placed at the parish school of Laurencekirk,
which was then in some repute, and of which, about forty years before,
Ruddiman, the famous grammarian, had been the master. At this time he
had access to few books, except those which the minister of the village
(the Rev. Mr. Thomson) kindly lent him, and which he read with avidity.
It was then that he first became acquainted with English versification
in Ogilby's Virgil. Even then he was known among his schoolfellows by
the name of _the poet_; and sometimes he would rise from bed, during the
night, that he might commit to writing any poetical idea that his fancy
had happened to suggest.
In 1749 he began his academical career, at the Marischal College,
Aberdeen:[B] and as his circumstances were straitened, he became a
competitor--and with success--for one of those bursaries or exhibitions,
which are annually bestowed on students who are unable to support the
entire expenses of a university education. He attended the Greek class
taught by Dr. Blackwell. This scholar, whose writings on classical
subjects,[C] though now fallen into disrepute, once enjoyed considerable
popularity, soon discovered that his pupil was no ordinary young man,
and distinguished him by several encouraging marks of approbation. The
kindness of the Professor made a deep impression on the mind of Beattie,
and he used to declare, in after life, that Blackwell was the first
person who gave him reason to believe that he was possessed of any
genius. During the four years of his attendance at the Marischal College
he also studied philosophy and divinity. The last mentioned branch of
knowledge he pursued doubtless with a view to the ministry, the church
being then the chief resource of the well educated sons of the poorer
classes in Scotland: he, however, soon abandoned all thoughts of the
clerical profession.
Having taken the degree of M. A., he was elected, on the 1st of August,
1753, schoolmaster of Fordoun, a small hamlet at the foot of the
Grampian hills, about six miles distant from his birthplace: here also
he officiated as præcentor, or parish-clerk.
Many an hour was now spent by Beattie in perfect solitude; the family of
Mr. Forbes, the minister, being almost the only society, save the
surrounding peasantry, which his situation allowed him to enjoy. But his
days went happily by. When not occupied by his public duties, he appears
to have devoted a portion of his time to the study of the classics;[D]
and occasionally he amused himself by composing little poems, a few of
which were printed in the Scots Magazine. His fondness for music had
ever been decided; and in his present retirement he cultivated it with
uncommon success.[E] In the grand and beautiful scenery of the
neighbourhood he found a never-failing source of pleasure. Not far from
the place where he dwelt, a large and well wooded glen communicates with
the mountains. In it he loved to wander; in it some of his earliest
verses were written; and his recollections of its wild and romantic
charms may be traced in several vivid descriptions of nature in his
poetical works. Sometimes he would pass the whole night among the
fields, gazing on the sky, and observing the various aspects it assumed
till the return of day; and the exhilarating song of "the lyric lark"
in the mornings of summer used to fill him with delight. In 1755, his
loneliness was cheered by the arrival of his brother David, who came to
settle himself at the village of Fordoun.
The celebrated and eccentric Francis Garden, Esq., (afterwards one of
the judges of the supreme courts of civil and criminal law in Scotland,
by the title of Lord Gardenstone,) who was then sheriff of the county of
Kincardine, and occasionally resided in the neighbourhood of Fordoun,
was the earliest patron of our author. They accidentally became
acquainted with each Other. Mr. Garden having one day discovered Beattie
busily writing with a pencil in his favourite glen, and learning that he
was engaged in the composition of a poem,[F] from that period took him
under his protection.
At this time too he became known to another more celebrated and more
eccentric character, Lord Monboddo, whose family estate is in the parish
of Fordoun; and though their opinions on some important points by no
means coincided, they ever after lived on friendly terms.
In 1757, the place of usher in the grammar-school of Aberdeen being
vacant, Beattie, by the advice of Mr. Forbes, the minister of Fordoun,
became a candidate for it, but without success. So conspicuously,
however, had his abilities manifested themselves during his examination
on that occasion, that the same place becoming again vacant about a year
after, and two candidates having appeared, both of whom were declared
unqualified for it, he was requested by the magistrates to fill it
without further trial. He was accordingly elected to the office on the
20th June, 1758.
This was an important event in Beattie's life. From a secluded hamlet,
where there was the greatest difficulty in obtaining either society or
books, he was transplanted to a populous and flourishing town, where he
might associate with those whose tastes were congenial with his own, and
carry on his literary pursuits by means of public libraries. The friend
of his earlier years, Professor Blackwell, had sunk into the grave; but
he had soon the good fortune to become intimately acquainted with
several persons of acknowledged talents and learning, connected with the
Marischal and King's Colleges, as also with various well educated
gentlemen, inhabitants of the town.
In 1760, a chair in the Marischal College becoming vacant, it was
suggested to Beattie by his friend, Mr. Arbuthnot,[G] that he should
endeavour to procure the appointment for himself. Our author, who had
never dreamed of aspiring to so dignified a situation, heard the
proposal with astonishment. Mr. Arbuthnot, however, "willing to try what
could be done," induced the Earl of Erroll, with whom he was on intimate
terms, to solicit, by means of Lord Milton, the powerful interest of the
Duke of Argyll in behalf of the humble usher. The application proved
successful; and on the 8th October, 1760, Beattie was installed
Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the Marischal College.
His first lectures were delivered during the winter session of 1760, and
1761; and for the long space of more than thirty years he continued to
discharge most conscientiously the duties of the important station to
which he had been so unexpectedly raised.
A literary and convivial club (to which the vulgar gave the nickname of
the _Wise Club_) had been established for some years at Aberdeen, the
members consisting of the Professors of the Marischal and King's
Colleges, and of gentlemen of the town, who had a taste for literature
and conversation. Into this society Beattie was now enrolled. They used
to meet at a tavern, once a fortnight, at five o'clock in the
afternoon, (for in those days the common dinner-hour was early) when,
the president taking the chair, an essay was read, composed by one of
the members in his turn, and a literary or philosophical subject
discussed; at half past eight a slight meal was served up, and at ten
they retired to their homes. To this club Dr. Reid, Dr. Campbell, Dr.
Gerrard, and Dr. Gregory, belonged; and from it several admired works of
philosophy and criticism may be said to have originated.
In 1761 Beattie made his first appearance in print, in his own
character, by publishing a small volume, dedicated to the Earl of
Erroll, entitled _Original Poems and Translations_. It consisted partly
of some of the verses which he had formerly sent to the Scots Magazine,
and partly of pieces which he had recently composed. "This collection,"
says his good-natured and not very tasteful biographer, Sir William
Forbes, "was very favourably received, and stamped Dr. Beattie with the
character of a poet of great and original genius." It was certainly
"favourably received," the chief critical journals of the day being
unanimous in its praise; but that it "stamped the author with the
character of a poet of great and original genius," I cannot allow. The
truth is, it does not contain a single poem which rises much above
mediocrity; and if Beattie had never touched the lyre with a more
powerful hand, a memoir of his life would not have been required for
the Aldine Poets. So lightly, indeed, did he himself afterwards think of
the collection in question, that he used to destroy all the copies of it
which he could procure, and would only suffer four pieces from it (and
these much altered and improved) to stand in the same volume with _The
Minstrel_.
During the summer of 1763, Beattie for the first time visited London,
among the inhabitants of which, Millar, his publisher, was almost his
only acquaintance. While residing there, he made a pilgrimage to Pope's
villa at Twickenham.
_The Judgment of Paris_, printed in 4to, in 1765, was the least
successful of our author's poetical works. Several passages of
considerable beauty could not prevent this elaborate, cold, and
metaphysical production from being utterly neglected by the public.
That his _Verses on the death of Churchill_ (which appeared anonymously
very soon after _The Judgment of Paris_) were read with more attention,
is to be attributed rather to the subject of the piece than to its
intrinsic merit.[H] No one can peruse it without regretting that the
amiable Beattie should have been betrayed by political feelings into
such virulent abuse of a man of genius, who had just been gathered to
the poets of other days. He is said to have written it at the
solicitation of certain friends in Scotland, where the name of Churchill
was held in detestation; and on these injudicious instigators let a
portion of the odium rest.
In the autumn of 1765, Gray, who was then regarded as the first of
living bards, paid a visit to the Earl of Strathmore, at Glammis castle.
No sooner did Beattie hear of his arrival than he addressed to him the
following letter:
Marischal College of Aberdeen, 30th August, 1765.
"If I thought it necessary to offer an apology for venturing to
address you in this abrupt manner, I should be very much at a loss
how to begin. I might plead my admiration of your genius, and my
attachment to your character; but who is he that could not, with
truth, urge the same excuse for intruding upon your retirement? I
might plead my earnest desire to be personally acquainted with a man
whom I have so long and so passionately admired in his writings; but
thousands of greater consequence than I, are ambitious of the same
honour. I, indeed, must either flatter myself that no apology is
necessary, or otherwise I must despair of obtaining what has long
been the object of my most ardent wishes; I must forever forfeit
all hopes of seeing you, and conversing with you.
"It was yesterday I received the agreeable news of your being in
Scotland, and of your intending to visit some parts of it. Will you
permit us to hope, that we shall have an opportunity, at Aberdeen,
of thanking you in person, for the honour you have done to Britain,
and to the poetic art, by your inestimable compositions, and of
offering you all that we have that deserves your acceptance, namely,
hearts full of esteem, respect, and affection? If you cannot come so
far northward, let me at least be acquainted with the place of your
residence, and permitted to wait on you. Forgive, sir, this request;
forgive me if I urge it with earnestness, for indeed it concerns me
nearly; and do me the justice to believe, that I am, with the most
sincere attachment, and most respectful esteem, &c. &c. &c.
"P. S. Dr. Carlysle of Musselburgh, and Dr. Wight of Glasgow,
acquainted me of your being in Scotland. It was from them I learned
that my name was not wholly unknown to you."
In consequence of this letter, Beattie received an invitation to Glammis
castle; and a friendship and correspondence commenced between the two
poets, which terminated only with the death of Gray. The impression
which their first meeting made on our author he thus describes in a
letter to Sir William Forbes:--"I am sorry you did not see Mr. Gray on
his return; you would have been much pleased with him. Setting aside his
merit as a poet, which, however, in my opinion, is greater than any of
his contemporaries can boast, in this or in any other nation, I found
him possessed of the most exact taste, the soundest judgment, and the
most extensive learning. He is happy in a singular facility of
expression. His conversation abounds in original observations, delivered
with no appearance of sententious formality, and seeming to arise
spontaneously without study or premeditation. I passed two very
agreeable days with him in Glammis, and found him as easy in his
manners, and as communicative and frank, as I could have wished."
A new edition of our author's Poems came forth in 1766. From it a large
portion of the pieces published in the former collection was rejected;
while _The Judgment of Paris_, the _Lines on the Death of Churchill_,
and one or two copies of verses never before printed, supplied the
deficiency. The translation of Addison's _Pygmæogeranomachia_, which
concludes the volume, is remarkable for its spirited and graceful
versification.
In a letter to Dr. Blacklock, dated 22d September in the same year,
Beattie thus alludes to his great work, _The Minstrel_:--
"Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in
which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either
droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as
the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the manner which I have
adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition. I have written
one hundred and fifty lines, and am surprised to find the structure of
that complicated stanza so little troublesome. I was always fond of it,
for I think it the most harmonious that ever was contrived. It admits of
more variety of pauses than either the couplet or the alternate rhyme;
and it concludes with a pomp and majesty of sound, which, to my ear, is
wonderfully delightful. It seems also very well adapted to the genius of
our language, which, from its irregularity of inflexion and number of
monosyllables, abounds in diversified terminations, and consequently
renders our poetry susceptible of an endless variety of legitimate
rhymes. But I am so far from intending this performance for the press,
that I am morally certain it never will be finished. I shall add a
stanza now and then, when I am at leisure, and when I have no humour for
any other amusement; but I am resolved to write no more poetry with a
view to publication, till I see some dawnings of a poetical taste among
the generality of readers, of which, however, there is not at present
any thing like an appearance."
Writing to Sir William Forbes, 8th January, 1767, our author gives an
account of the cause of his composing _The Hermit_, the most perfect of
his minor poems:--
"The favourable reception you gave to my little poem, demands my
acknowledgments. I aimed at simplicity in the expression, and something
like uncommonness in the thought; and I own I am not ill pleased with it
upon the whole; though I am sensible it does not answer the purpose for
which I made it. I wrote it at the desire of a young lady of this
country, who has a taste both for poetry and music, and wanted me to
make words for a Scots tune called 'Pentland Hills,' of which she is
very fond. The verses correspond well enough with the measure and
subject of the tune, but are extremely unsuitable for the purpose of a
song."[I]
To Dr. Blacklock he again writes concerning _The Minstrel_:
"Aberdeen, 20th May, 1767.
"MY performance in Spenser's stanza has not advanced a single line
these many months. It is called 'The Minstrel.' The subject was
suggested by a dissertation on the old minstrels, which is prefixed
to a collection of Ballads lately published by Dodsley, in three
volumes. I propose to give an account of the birth, education, and
adventures of one of those bards; in which I shall have full scope
for description, sentiment, satire, and even a certain species of
humour and of pathos, which, in the opinion of my great master are
by no means inconsistent, as is evident from his works. My hero is
to be born in the south of Scotland; which you know was the native
land of the English minstrels; I mean of those minstrels who
travelled into England, and supported themselves there by singing
their ballads to the harp. His father is a shepherd. The son will
have a natural taste for music and the beauties of nature; which,
however, languishes for want of culture, till in due time he meets
with a hermit, who gives him some instruction; but endeavours to
check his genius for poetry and adventures, by representing the
happiness of obscurity and solitude, and the bad reception which
poetry has met with in almost every age. The poor swain acquiesces
in this advice, and resolves to follow his father's employment;
when, on a sudden, the country is invaded by the Danes, or English
borderers, (I know not which,) and he is stript of all his little
fortune, and obliged by necessity to commence minstrel. This is all
that I have as yet concerted of the plan. I have written one hundred
and fifty lines, but my hero is not yet born, though now in a fair
way of being so, for his parents are described and married. I know
not whether I shall ever proceed any farther: however, I am not
dissatisfied with what I have written."
On the 28th June, 1767, Beattie was married at Aberdeen to Miss Mary
Dun, only daughter of the rector of the Grammar-school in that city; a
mutual attachment having for some time existed between them. She was a
few years younger than our author: her person was pleasing, her manners
were lively; and she possessed a moderate share of accomplishments. This
union, which seemed to promise nothing but happiness to Beattie, threw
the blight of misery over his later years, and undoubtedly contributed
to shorten his career. The woman whom he had selected as a partner for
life, inherited from her mother the most dreadful of human
maladies,--insanity; which, a few years after marriage, displayed itself
in strange follies and caprices,[J] and at last broke forth with such
violence, as to render her separation from her family absolutely
necessary. By this lady he had two sons, of whom particular mention
will be made hereafter.
Beattie now employed himself on the composition of his _Essay on Truth_,
a work, which was to be honoured with such marks of public approbation,
as the most sanguine author in his wildest dreams of success could
hardly have anticipated. In a letter to Sir William Forbes, dated 17th
January, 1768, he says:--
"I have, for a time, laid aside my favourite studies, that I might have
leisure to prosecute a philosophical inquiry, less amusing indeed than
poetry and criticism, but not less important. The extraordinary success
of the sceptical philosophy has long filled me with regret. I wish I
could undeceive mankind in regard to this matter. Perhaps this wish is
vain: but it can do no harm to make the trial. The point I am now
labouring to prove, is the universality and immutability of moral
sentiment,--a point which has been brought into dispute, both by the
friends and by the enemies of virtue. In an age less licentious in its
principles, it would not, perhaps, be necessary to insist much on this
point. At present it is very necessary. Philosophers have ascribed all
religion to human policy. Nobody knows how soon they may ascribe all
morality to the same origin; and then the foundations of human society,
as well as of human happiness, will be effectually undermined. To
accomplish this end, Hobbes, Hume, Mandeville, and even Locke, have
laboured; and, I am sorry to say, from my knowledge of mankind, that
their labour has not been altogether in vain. Not that the works of
these philosophers are generally read, or even understood by the few who
read them. It is not the mode, now-a-days, for a man to think for
himself; but they greedily adopt the conclusions, without any concern
about the arguments or principles whence they proceed; and they justify
their own credulity by general declamations upon the transcendent merit
of their favourite authors, and the universal deference that is paid to
their genius and learning. If I can prove those authors guilty of gross
misrepresentations of matters of fact, unacquainted with the human
heart, ignorant even of their own principles, the dupes of verbal
ambiguities, and the votaries of frivolous, though dangerous philosophy,
I shall do some little service to the cause of truth; and all this I
will undertake to prove in many instances of high importance."
During this year, a poem in broad Scotch, entitled _The Fortunate
Shepherdess_, by Alexander Ross, schoolmaster, of Lochlee, was printed
by subscription at Aberdeen; and in order to excite some curiosity about
the volume, Beattie good-naturedly wrote a copy of verses in the same
dialect, addressed to the author, which appeared in the Aberdeen
Journal.[K]
He thus communicates to Dr. Blacklock his motives for attempting the
laborious prose work, with which he was still occupied:--
"Aberdeen, 9th January, 1769.
"It was very kind in you to read over my 'Essay on the Immutability
of Moral Sentiment' with so much attention. I wish it deserved any
part of the high encomium you bestowed on it. I flatter myself it
will receive considerable improvements from a second transcribing,
which I intend to begin as soon as I can. Some parts of it will be
enlarged, and others (perhaps) shortened: the examples from history,
and authorities from ancient authors, will be more numerous; it will
be regularly distributed into chapters and sections, and the
language will be corrected throughout. The first part, which treats
of the permanency of truth in general, is now in great forwardness;
ninety pages in quarto are finished, and materials provided for as
many more. The design of the whole you will guess from the part you
have seen. It is to overthrow scepticism, and establish conviction
in its place; a conviction not in the least favourable to bigotry or
prejudice, far less to a persecuting spirit; but such a conviction
as produces firmness of mind, and stability of principle, in a
consistence with moderation, candour, and liberal inquiry. If I
understand my own design, it is certainly this; whether I shall
accomplish this design or not, the event only will determine.
Meantime I go on with cheerfulness in this intricate and fatiguing
study, because I would fain hope that it may do some good; harm I
think it cannot possibly do any.
"Perhaps you are anxious to know what first induced me to write on
the subject; I will tell you as briefly as I can. In my younger days
I read chiefly for the sake of amusement, and I found myself best
amused with the classics, and what we call the _belles lettres_.
Metaphysics I disliked; mathematics pleased me better; but I found
my mind neither improved nor gratified by that study. When
Providence allotted me my present station, it became incumbent on me
to read what had been written on the subject of morals and human
nature; the works of Locke, Berkeley, and Hume, were celebrated as
masterpieces in this way; to them, therefore, I had recourse. But,
as I begin to study them with great prejudices in their favour, you
will readily conceive how strangely I was surprised to find them, as
I thought, replete with absurdities. I pondered these absurdities: I
weighed the arguments, with which I was sometimes not a little
confounded; and the result was, that I began at last to suspect my
own understanding, and to think that I had not capacity for such a
study. For I could not conceive it possible, that the absurdities of
these authors were so great as they seemed to me to be; otherwise,
thought I, the world would never admire them so much. About this
time some excellent antisceptical works made their appearance,
particularly Reid's 'Inquiry into the Human Mind.' Then it was that
I began to have a little more confidence in my own judgment, when I
found it confirmed by those of whose abilities I did not entertain
the least distrust. I reviewed my authors again, with a very
different temper of mind. A very little truth will sometimes
enlighten a vast extent of science. I found that the sceptical
philosophy was not what the world imagined it to be, nor what I,
following the opinion of the world, had hitherto imagined it to be,
but a frivolous, though dangerous, system of verbal subtilty, which
it required neither genius, nor learning, nor taste, nor knowledge
of mankind, to be able to put together; but only a captious temper,
an irreligious spirit, a moderate command of words, and an
extraordinary degree of vanity and presumption. You will easily
perceive that I am speaking of this philosophy only in its most
extravagant state, that is, as it appears in the works of Mr. Hume.
The more I study it, the more am I confirmed in this opinion. But
while I applauded and admired the sagacity of those who led me into,
or at least encouraged me to proceed in, this train of thinking, I
was not altogether satisfied with them in another respect. I could
not approve that extraordinary adulation which some of them paid to
their arch-adversary. I could not conceive the propriety of paying
compliments to a man's _heart_, at the very time one is proving that
his aim is to subvert the principles of truth, virtue, and religion;
nor to his _understanding_, when we are charging him with publishing
the grossest and most contemptible nonsense. I thought I then
foresaw, what I have since found to happen, that this controversy
will be looked upon rather as a trial of skill between two
logicians, than as a disquisition in which the best interests of
mankind were concerned; and that the world, especially the
fashionable part of it, would still be disposed to pay the greatest
deference to the opinions of him who, even by the acknowledgment of
his antagonists, was confessed to be the best philosopher and the
soundest reasoner. All this has happened, and more. Some, to my
certain knowledge, have said, that Mr. Hume and his adversaries did
really act in concert, in order mutually to promote the sale of one
another's works; as a proof of which, they mention, not only the
extravagant compliments that pass between them, but also the
circumstance of Dr. R.[L] and Dr. C.[M] sending their manuscripts to
be perused and corrected by Mr. Hume before they gave them to the
press. I, who know both the men, am very sensible of the gross
falsehood of these reports. As to the affair of the manuscripts, it
was, I am convinced, candour and modesty that induced them to it.
But the world knows no such thing; and, therefore, may be excused
for mistaking the meaning of actions that have really an equivocal
appearance. I know likewise that they are sincere, not only in the
detestation they express for Mr. Hume's irreligious tenets, but also
in the compliments they have paid to his talents; for they both look
upon him as an extraordinary genius; a point in which I cannot agree
with them. But while I thus vindicate them from imputations, which
the world, from its ignorance of circumstances, has laid to their
charge, I cannot approve them in every thing; I wish they had
carried their researches a little farther, and expressed themselves
with a little more firmness and spirit. For well I know, that their
works, for want of this, will never produce that effect which (if
all mankind were cool metaphysical reasoners) might be expected from
them. There is another thing in which my judgment differs
considerably from that of the gentlemen just mentioned. They have
great metaphysical abilities, and they love the metaphysical
sciences. I do not. I am convinced that this metaphysical spirit is
the bane of true learning, true taste, and true science; that to it
we owe all this modern scepticism and atheism; that it has a bad
effect upon the human faculties, and tends not a little to sour the
temper, to subvert good principles, and to disqualify men for the
business of life. You will now see wherein my views differ from
those of the other answerers of Mr. Hume. I want to show the world,
that the sceptical philosophy is contradictory to itself, and
destructive of genuine philosophy, as well as of religion and
virtue; that it is in its own nature so paltry a thing (however it
may have been celebrated by some,) that to be despised it needs only
to be known; that no degree of genius is necessary to qualify a man
for making a figure in this pretended science; but rather a certain
minuteness and suspiciousness of mind, and want of sensibility, the
very reverse of true intellectual excellence; that metaphysics
cannot possibly do any good, but may do, and actually have done,
much harm; that sceptical philosophers, whatever they may pretend,
are the corrupters of science, the pests of society, and the enemies
of mankind. I want to show, that the same method of reasoning, which
these people have adopted in their books, if transferred into common
life, would show them to be destitute of common sense; that true
philosophers follow a different method of reasoning: and that,
without following a different method, no truth can be discovered. I
want to lay before the public, in as strong a light as possible, the
following dilemma: our sceptics either believe the doctrines they
publish, or they do not believe them: if they believe them, they are
fools--if not, they are a thousand times worse. I want also to
fortify the mind against the sceptical poison, and to propose
certain criteria of moral truth, by which some of the most dangerous
sceptical errors may be detected and guarded against.
"You are sensible, that, in order to attain these ends, it is
absolutely necessary for me to use great plainness of speech. My
expressions must not be so tame as to seem to imply either a
diffidence in my principles, or a coldness towards the cause I have
undertaken to defend. And where is the man who can blame me for
speaking from the heart, and therefore speaking with warmth, when I
appear in the cause of truth, religion, virtue, and mankind? I am
sure my dear friend Dr. Blacklock will not; he, who has set before
me so many examples of this laudable ardour; he, whose style I
should be proud to take for my model, if I were not aware of the
difficulty, I may say, the insuperable difficulty, of imitating it
with success. You need not fear, however, that I expose myself by an
excess of passion or petulance. I hope I shall be animated, without
losing my temper, and keen, without injury to good manners. In a
word, I will be as soft and delicate as the subject and my
conscience will allow. One gentleman, a friend of yours,[N] I shall
have occasion to treat with much freedom. I have heard of his
virtues. I know he has many virtues; God forbid I should ever seek
to lessen them, or wish them to be found insincere. I hope they are
sincere, and that they will increase in number and merit every day.
To his virtues I shall do justice; but I must also do justice to his
faults, at least to those faults which are public, and which, for
the sake of truth and of mankind, ought not to be concealed or
disguised. Personal reflections will be carefully avoided; I hope I
am in no danger of falling into them, for I bear no personal
animosity against any man whatsoever: sometimes I may perhaps be
keen; but I trust I shall never depart from the Christian and
philosophic character.
"A scheme like this of mine cannot be popular, far less can it be
lucrative. It will raise me enemies; it will expose me to the
scrutiny of the most rigid criticism; it will make me be considered
by many as a sullen and illiberal bigot. I trust, however, in
Providence, and in the goodness of my cause, that my attempts in
behalf of truth shall not be altogether ineffectual, and that my
labours shall be attended with some utility to my fellow-creatures.
This, in my estimation, will do much more than counterbalance all
the inconveniences I have any reason to apprehend. I have already
fallen on evil tongues (as Milton says) on account of this intended
publication. It has been reported, that I had written a most
scurrilous paper against Mr. Hume, and was preparing to publish it
when a friend of mine interposed, and, with very great difficulty,
prevailed on me to suppress it, because he knew it would hurt or
ruin my character. Such is the treatment I have to expect from one
set of people. I was so provoked when I first heard this calumny
that I deliberated whether I should not throw my papers into the
fire, with a _Si populus vult decipi, decipiatur_: but I rejected
that thought; for so many persons have told me, that it was my
_duty_ to publish these papers, that I almost began to think so
myself. Many have urged me to publish them; none ever dissuaded me.
The gentleman, named in the report, read the essay, and returned it
with the highest commendations; but I do not recollect that he ever
spoke a syllable about publishing or suppressing it. But I have
certainly tired you with so long a detail, about so trifling a
matter as my works. However, I thought it necessary to say something
by way of apology for them, for I find that your good opinion is of
too much consequence to my peace, to suffer me to neglect any
opportunity of cultivating it."
The _Essay on Truth_ being now finished, our author was desirous of
selling the MS. to some bookseller, in order that he might avoid all
risk to himself in the publication, and intrusted the care of this
matter to Sir William Forbes and Mr. Arbuthnot. His two friends,
however, having applied to the bookseller, whom they imagined the most
proper person to publish the work, were vexed by his positive refusal to
purchase it, although he had no objection to print it on Beattie's
account. In this difficulty they generously resolved to become
themselves the purchasers of the first edition. "I therefore," says Sir
William Forbes, "wrote to him [Beattie] (nothing surely but the truth,
although, I confess, not the whole truth,) that the manuscript was sold
for fifty guineas, which I remitted to him by a bank bill; and I added,
that we had stipulated with the bookseller who was to print the book,
that we should be partners in the publication."
At length in May, 1770, the _Essay on Truth_ was given to the world. As
it had been seen in manuscript by several eminent literary characters,
and as it was understood to be a direct attack on the philosophy of Hume
(who was then in the height of his popularity,) its appearance excited
immediate notice. It has been said, that on its publication, Hume spoke
of Beattie with great bitterness, complaining (and I am forced to allow
that there was some cause for the complaint) that he had not used him
like a gentleman: it has even been asserted that he could not endure the
name of our author to be mentioned in his presence. I suspect that in
all this there is great exaggeration. The placid temper of Hume was not
likely to be much ruffled by any thing that might be written against his
system; his friends and admirers were probably more disturbed by the
attack than the philosopher himself. In less than four years five large
editions of the _Essay_ were circulated, and translations of it were
made into French and other foreign languages.
From the rugged paths of philosophy Beattie turned once more into the
flowery walks of poesy. In 1771, the First Book of _The Minstrel_ was
published without the author's name. Its success was complete. The voice
of every critic was loud in its praise; and before the Second Book
appeared (in 1774), four editions of the First had been dispersed
throughout the kingdom. The following elegant and touching encomium was
passed upon the poem by Lord Lyttelton, in a letter to Mrs. Montagu, who
had put the First Book into the hands of that virtuous nobleman:
"Hill Street, 8th March, 1771.
"I read your 'Minstrel' last night, with as much rapture as poetry,
in her noblest, sweetest charms, ever raised in my soul. It seemed
to me that my once most beloved minstrel, Thomson, was come down
from heaven, refined by the converse of purer spirits than those he
lived with here, to let me hear him sing again the beauties of
nature, and the finest feelings of virtue, not with human, but with
angelic strains! I beg you to express my gratitude to the poet for
the pleasure he has given me."
Of the same date with the preceding letter, Beattie received one from
Gray, containing many minute remarks on his poem. As it consists almost
entirely of verbal criticism, it scarcely admits of quotation: a single
short extract may however be given from it:
"St. 11. _O, how canst thou renounce_,[O] &c. But this, of all others,
is my favourite stanza. It is true poetry; it is inspiration; only (to
show it is mortal) there is one blemish; the word _garniture_ suggesting
an idea of dress, and, what is worse, of French dress."
When the poem was reprinted, one or two slight alterations were made in
deference to the opinion of Gray.
In a letter to the Dowager Lady Forbes, 12th October, 1772, our author
confesses that in the character of Edwin he meant to paint himself:
"From the questions your Ladyship is pleased to propose in the
conclusion of your letter, as well as from some things I have had the
honour to hear you advance in conversation, I find you are willing to
suppose that, in Edwin, I have given only a picture of myself, as I was
in my younger days. I confess the supposition is not groundless. I have
made him take pleasure in the scenes in which I took pleasure, and
entertain sentiments similar to those of which, even in my early youth,
I had repeated experience. The scenery of a mountainous country, the
ocean, the sky, thoughtfulness and retirement, and sometimes melancholy
objects and ideas, had charms in my eyes, even when I was a schoolboy:
and at a time when I was so far from being able to express, that I did
not understand my own feelings, or perceive the tendency of such
pursuits and amusements; and as to poetry and music, before I was ten
years old I could play a little on the violin, and was as much master of
Homer and Virgil as Pope's and Dryden's translations could make me."
The intense thought which Beattie had devoted to the composition of the
_Essay on Truth_ having materially injured his health, he was advised by
his physicians to try the remedy of change of scene. He accordingly set
out on a journey to London, and arrived there in the beginning of
autumn, 1771. He was no longer the obscure individual who had visited it
in 1763;[P] he was now the triumphant adversary of scepticism, and the
author of the admired _Minstrel_; a man whom the most distinguished
characters in the literary and fashionable world were prepared to treat
with attention and respect. Among several letters of introduction, which
he carried with him, was one from Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, to Mrs.
Montagu. At the splendid and hospitable mansion of this celebrated lady,
Beattie became acquainted with various persons, both male and female,
who were then the chief ornaments of London society; and he used to
dwell with delight on the recollections of her more private parties,
made up of Lord Lyttelton, Mrs. Carter, and a few others, who spent
their evenings in the most unreserved conversation on literary, moral,
or religious subjects. From this time, Mrs. Montagu continued to be one
of his firmest friends; and their epistolary correspondence closed only
with her life. The politeness and kindness of Hawkesworth, Armstrong,
Garrick, and Johnson, also contributed much to render pleasant his visit
to the metropolis. Concerning the last illustrious man he writes thus:
"Johnson has been greatly misrepresented. I have passed several entire
days with him, and found him extremely agreeable. The compliments he
pays to my writings are so high that I have not the face to mention
them." In December Beattie had returned to Aberdeen.
In 1772, his mother died, at the advanced age of fourscore, at the house
of her affectionate son David, in the neighbourhood of Laurencekirk.
Towards the end of April, 1773, Beattie, accompanied by his wife, set
out again for London. This journey was undertaken partly for the sake of
his health and partly with a view to another object--the bettering of
his circumstances. The emolument which he had derived from his writings
bore unfortunately no proportion to the fame he had acquired; and the
small income arising from his professorship afforded him the only means
for supporting his family. During his former visit to the capital, in
1771, his English friends had been very desirous to procure for him some
permanent provision; and it was well known that his Majesty had
expressed approbation of his writings, and had even declared his
intention of conferring some reward on the man who had laboured so
successfully to advance the interests of religion. With several
important letters of introduction--one addressed to the Earl of
Dartmouth--he now arrived in London, and was cordially welcomed by Mrs.
Montagu, and his other friends. His reception by Lord Dartmouth was kind
and courteous: soon after which, being summoned to wait on Lord North,
he was told by that minister that an early opportunity should be taken
to inform his Majesty of his arrival.
By some of his friends it had been suggested that Beattie should take
orders, and enter the English church; but this mode of improving his
fortunes he very properly rejected.[Q] At last, by the advice of the
Archbishop of York, a memorial was drawn up "expressing his services,
his wants, and his wishes;" which, having been transmitted to Lord
Dartmouth, was by him laid before the King, who, on that occasion, spoke
of Beattie and his writings with high approbation, and signified a
desire to see him.
Meantime the number of our author's acquaintances in the metropolis
increased daily, and his society was eagerly courted by a long list of
illustrious names. He now became personally known to a distinguished
churchman, with whom, during the preceding year he had held some
correspondence by letter--Dr. Porteus, then Rector of Lambeth, and
finally Bishop of London; and the friendship which took place between
them was sincere and lasting.
At the first levee, Beattie was presented by Lord Dartmouth to his
Majesty, who for several minutes talked to him concerning his _Essay on
Truth_ in the most condescending and affable manner.
Soon after this, the University of Oxford, at the installation of Lord
North as its Chancellor, conferred on our author a very flattering mark
of distinction, an honorary degree of Doctor of Laws.
At length the object of his wishes was attained. On the 20th of August,
he received an official letter from the secretary of Lord North,
informing him that the king had been pleased to allow him a pension of
two hundred pounds a year. Of the private interview, with which, a few
days after he was honoured by their majesties, he has left the following
account in his Diary:
"Tuesday, 24th August, set out for Dr. Majendie's at Kew-Green. The
Doctor told me that he had not seen the King yesterday, but had left a
note in writing, to intimate that I was to be at his house to-day; and
that one of the King's pages had come to him this morning, to say 'that
his Majesty would see me a little after twelve.' At twelve, the Doctor
and I went to the King's house, at Kew. We had been only a few minutes
in the hall, when the King and Queen came in from an airing; and, as
they passed through the hall, the King called to me by name, and asked
how long it was since I came from town. I answered, about an hour. 'I
shall see you,' says he, 'in a little.' The Doctor and I waited a
considerable time (for the King was busy), and then we were called into
a large room, furnished as a library, where the King was walking about,
and the Queen sitting in a chair. We were received in the most gracious
manner possible by both their Majesties. I had the honour of a
conversation with them (nobody else being present but Dr. Majendie) for
upwards of an hour, on a great variety of topics; in which both the King
and Queen joined, with a degree of cheerfulness, affability, and ease,
that was to me surprising, and soon dissipated the embarrassment which I
felt at the beginning of the conference. They both complimented me, in
the highest terms, on my 'Essay,' which, they said, was a book they
always kept by them; and the King said he had one copy of it at Kew, and
another in town, and immediately went and took it down from a shelf. I
found it was the second edition. 'I never stole a book but one,' said
his Majesty, 'and that was yours (speaking to me); I stole it from the
Queen, to give it to Lord Hertford to read.' He had heard that the sale
of Hume's 'Essays' had failed, since my book was published; and I told
him what Mr. Strahan had told me, in regard to that matter. He had even
heard of my being in Edinburgh last summer, and how Mr. Hume was
offended on the score of my book. He asked many questions about the
second part of the 'Essay,' and when it would be ready for the press. I
gave him, in a short speech, an account of the plan of it; and said, my
health was so precarious, I could not tell when it might be ready, as I
had many books to consult before I could finish it; but, that if my
health were good, I thought I might bring it to a conclusion in two or
three years. He asked, how long I had been in composing my Essay?
praised the caution with which it was written; and said, he did not
wonder that it had employed me five or six years. He asked about my
poems. I said, there was only one poem of my own on which I set any
value (meaning the 'Minstrel,') and that it was first published about
the same time with the 'Essay.' My other poems, I said, were incorrect,
being but juvenile pieces, and of little consequence, even in my own
opinion. We had much conversation on moral subjects; from which both
their Majesties let it appear that they were warm friends to
Christianity; and so little inclined to infidelity, that they could
hardly believe that any thinking man could really be an atheist, unless
he could bring himself to believe that he made himself; a thought which
pleased the King exceedingly; and he repeated it several times to the
Queen. He asked, whether any thing had been written against me. I spoke
of the late pamphlet, of which I gave an account, telling him, that I
never had met with any man who had read it, except one Quaker. This
brought on some discourse about the Quakers, whose moderation and mild
behaviour the King and Queen commended. I was asked many questions about
the Scots universities; the revenues of the Scots clergy; their mode of
praying and preaching; the medical college of Edinburgh; Dr. Gregory
(of whom I gave a particular character), and Dr. Cullen; the length of
our vacation at Aberdeen, and the closeness of our attendance during the
winter; the number of students that attend my lectures; my mode of
lecturing, whether from notes, or completely written lectures; about Mr.
Hume, and Dr. Robertson, and Lord Kinnoull, and the Archbishop of York,
&c. &c. &c. His Majesty asked what I thought of my new acquaintance,
Lord Dartmouth? I said there was something in his air and manner which I
thought not only agreeable, but enchanting, and that he seemed to me to
be one of the best of men; a sentiment in which both their Majesties
heartily joined. 'They say that Lord Dartmouth is an enthusiast,' said
the King, 'but surely he says nothing on the subject of religion, but
what every Christian may, and ought to say.' He asked, whether I did not
think the English language on the decline at present? I answered in the
affirmative; and the King agreed, and named the 'Spectator' as one of
the best standards of the language. When I told him that the Scots
clergy sometimes prayed a quarter, or even half an hour at a time, he
asked whether that did not lead them into repetitions? I said, it often
did. 'That,' said he, 'I don't like in prayers; and excellent as our
liturgy is, I think it somewhat faulty in that respect.' 'Your majesty
knows,' said I, 'that three services are joined in one in the ordinary
church service, which is one cause of those repetitions.' 'True,' he
replied, 'and that circumstance also makes the service too long.' From
this he took occasion to speak of the composition of the church liturgy;
on which he very justly bestowed the highest commendation. 'Observe,'
his Majesty said, 'how flat those occasional prayers are, that are now
composed, in comparison with the old ones.' When I mentioned the
smallness of the church livings in Scotland, he said, 'he wondered how
men of liberal education would choose to become clergymen there;' and
asked, 'whether in the remote parts of the country, the clergy, in
general were not very ignorant?' I answered, 'No, for that education was
very cheap in Scotland, and that the clergy, in general, were men of
good sense, and competent learning.' He asked whether we had any good
preachers at Aberdeen? I said, yes, and named Campbell and Gerard, with
whose names, however, I did not find that he was acquainted. Dr.
Majendie mentioned Dr. Oswald's 'Appeal' with commendation; I praised it
too and the queen took down the name, with a view to send for it. I was
asked, whether I knew Dr. Oswald? I answered, I did not; and said, that
my book was published before I read his; that Dr. O. was well known to
Lord Kinnoull, who had often proposed to make us acquainted. We
discussed a great many other topics; for the conversation, as before
observed, lasted for upwards of an hour, without any intermission. The
Queen bore a large share in it. Both the King and her Majesty showed a
great deal of good sense, acuteness, and knowledge, as well as of good
nature and affability. At last the king took out his watch (for it was
now almost three o'clock, his hour of dinner), which Dr. Majendie and I
took as a signal to withdraw. We accordingly bowed to their Majesties,
and I addressed the King in these words: 'I hope, Sir, your Majesty will
pardon me, if I take this opportunity to return you my humble and most
grateful acknowledgments, for the honour you have been pleased to confer
upon me.' He immediately answered, 'I think I could do no less for a man
who has done so much service to the cause of Christianity. I shall
always be glad of an opportunity to show the good opinion I have of
you.' The Queen sate all the while, and the King stood, sometimes
walking about a little. Her Majesty speaks the English language with
surprising elegance, and little or nothing of a foreign accent. There is
something wonderfully captivating in her manner; so that if she were
only of the rank of a private gentlewoman, one could not help taking
notice of her, as one of the most agreeable women in the world. Her face
is much more pleasing than any of her pictures; and in the expression of
her eyes, and in her smile, there is something peculiarly engaging.
When the Doctor and I came out, 'Pray,' said I, 'how did I behave? Tell
me honestly, for I am not accustomed to conversations of this kind.'
'Why, perfectly well,' answered he, 'and just as you ought to do.' 'Are
you sure of that?' said I. 'As sure,' he replied, 'as of my own
existence: and you may be assured of it too, when I tell you, that if
there had been any thing in your manner or conversation which was not
perfectly agreeable, your conference would have been at an end in eight
or ten minutes at most.' The Doctor afterwards told me, that it was a
most uncommon thing for a private man, and a commoner, to be honoured
with so long an audience. I dined with Dr. and Mrs. Majendie, and their
family, and returned to town in the evening, very much pleased with the
occurrences of the day."
At this time, Sir Joshua Reynolds, having requested Beattie to sit for
his picture, produced a likeness of him, which is generally regarded as
one of the finest works of that admirable artist. He is represented in
his Oxford gown of Doctor of Laws, with his famous Essay under his arm;
while beside him is Truth, habited as an Angel, holding in one hand a
pair of scales, and with the other thrusting down three frightful
figures, emblematic of Prejudice, Scepticism, and Folly.[R] Of this
picture Sir Joshua made a present to Beattie, who set a due value on so
noble a composition, and preserved it with the utmost care.
After an absence of a little more than five months, he returned to
Aberdeen.
A striking proof how highly the character and talents of Beattie were
appreciated, even by those to whom he was personally unknown, occurred
in October of this year (1773), when the chair of Moral Philosophy in
the University of Edinburgh was offered to him by the electors, the
magistrates of the city. He, however, declined accepting it, "Though my
fortune" (he writes to Sir William Forbes, on the subject) "were as
narrow now as it lately was, I should still incline rather to remain in
quiet where I am, than, by becoming a member of the University of
Edinburgh, to place myself within the reach of those (few as they are)
who have been pleased to let the world know that they do not wish me
well." He alludes to the enemies whom his _Essay on Truth_ had raised
up.
The Second Book of _The Minstrel_, together with a new and corrected
edition of the First, appeared in 1774, the author's name being now
added. The poem, thus enlarged, suffered no diminution of its
popularity.
The following year, Beattie and his wife spent several weeks in London,
residing during the chief part of the time with Dr. Porteus, one of his
kindest and most zealous friends. On this occasion, having shown himself
at court, he was immediately recognized by the King, who spoke to him
very graciously, and made several inquiries concerning his studies.
To a new and improved edition in quarto, of the _Essay on Truth_,
printed by subscription,[S] in 1776, our author appended three other
Essays: _On Poetry and Music, as they affect the Mind_, _On Laughter and
Ludicrous Composition_, and _On the Utility of Classical Learning_. In
1777,[T] he gave to the press a new edition of _The Minstrel_, to which
he added a few of his minor poems: this volume (he says in the preface)
contains "all the verses of which I am willing to be considered as the
author." In 1778,[U] he printed for private circulation a _Letter to Dr.
Blair, on the improvement of Psalmody in Scotland_. In 1779, he
published, for the use of the young men who attended his Lectures, a
_List of Scotticisms_, to the amount of about two hundred. And in 1780,
he contributed some thoughts _On Dreaming_ to the well known periodical
paper, _The Mirror_.
The following portion of a letter from Dr. Johnson to Beattie shows how
sincerely our author was esteemed by the great moralist:
"Bolt Court, Fleet Street, 21st August, 1780.
"More years than I have any delight to reckon have past since you
and I saw one another. Of this, however, there is no reason for
making any reprehensory complaint, _sic fata ferunt_: but, methinks,
there might pass some small interchange of regard between us. If you
say that I ought to have written, I now write; and I write to tell
you, that I have much kindness for you and Mrs. Beattie, and that I
wish your health better, and your life long. Try change of air, and
come a few degrees southward; a softer climate may do you both good.
Winter is coming on, and London will be warmer, and gayer, and
busier, and more fertile of amusement than Aberdeen."
In 1781, Beattie made another journey to London, taking with him his
eldest son, James Hay Beattie.[V] While there, we find him writing thus
to Sir William Forbes:
"1st June.
"I have been visiting all my friends again and again, and found them
as affectionate and attentive as ever. Death has indeed deprived me
of some since I was last here, of Garrick, and Armstrong, and poor
Harry Smith; but I have still many left."... "Johnson grows in grace
as he grows in years. He not only has better health and a fresher
complexion than ever he had before (at least since I knew him), but
he has contracted a gentleness of manners which pleases every body."
"28th June.
"I thought it my duty to appear at the levee before I left London;
and accordingly the week before last I went to court. The king had
not seen me for six years, and yet, to my surprise, knew me at first
sight. He spoke to me with his wonted condescension and affability;
and paid me a very polite compliment on the subject of my writings."
His _Dissertations, Moral and Critical_, were published in 1783.
A passage from a letter of the poet Cowper to the Rev. William Unwin,
5th April, 1784,[W] must not be omitted here:
"If you have not his poem, called the 'The Minstrel,' and cannot borrow
it, I must beg you to buy it for me; for, though I cannot afford to
deal largely in so expensive a commodity as books, I must afford to
purchase at least the poetical works of Beattie."
His health impaired, and his peace of mind destroyed, by the melancholy
condition of his wife (who, labouring under confirmed insanity, was now
removed from her family), we need not wonder that Beattie should
endeavour to forget his domestic griefs in the society of his English
friends, to whom he was ever welcome. During the year 1784, after
passing some time in London, he spent a month with Dr. Porteus (who had
now attained the rank of Bishop of Chester), at the beautiful parsonage
of Hunton, near Maidstone, which he characterizes as "the mansion of
peace, piety, and cheerfulness." He also visited Mrs. Montagu, at her
seat, called Sandleford, in Berks.
In 1786, his _Evidences of the Christian Religion_, were published. A
remark which he makes in a letter, while engaged in the composition of
this judicious summary, is worth quoting: "Whether this work shall ever
be of use to others, I know not; but this I know, that it has been of
considerable benefit to myself. For though, when I entered upon it, I
understood my subject well enough to entertain no doubt of the goodness
of my cause, yet I find, as I advance, new light continually breaking in
upon me."
The receipt of the following letter could hardly fail to gratify our
author:
"Philadelphia, 1st August, 1786.
"The American revolution, which divided the British empire, made no
breach in the republic of letters. As a proof of this, a stranger to
your person, and a citizen of a country lately hostile to yours, has
expressed his obligations to you for the knowledge and pleasure he
has derived from your excellent writings by procuring your admission
into the American Philosophical Society; a certificate of which,
subscribed by our illustrious president, Dr. Franklin, and the other
officers of the society, you will receive by the next vessel that
sails to any port in North Britain from this city.
"The stranger alluded to finished his studies in medicine in
Edinburgh in the year 1769, and has ever since taught chemistry and
medicine in the college of Philadelphia. His name (with the greatest
respect for yours) is,
"BENJAMIN RUSH."
The next year, with his eldest son for his companion, he repaired again
to London. While there, he writes thus to his niece, Miss Valentine, now
Mrs. Glennie:
"London, 20th July, 1787.
"I am just returned from Windsor, where I passed three days. I went
thither, partly to see some friends, but chiefly that I might pay my
respects to the King and Queen. They both received me in the most
gracious manner. I saw the King first on the terrace, where he knew
me at first sight, and did me the honour to converse with me a
considerable time. Next morning I saw him again at prayers in his
chapel, where he was pleased to introduce me to the Queen, who
inquired very kindly after my health; observed, that many years had
passed since she saw me last; regretted the bad weather which I had
met with at Windsor (for it rained incessantly,) which, said she,
has made your friends see less of you than they wished; and, after
some other conversation, her Majesty and the Princess Elizabeth,
who attended her, made a slight courtesy, and stepped into the
carriage that waited for them at the chapel door. The King remained
with us for some time longer, and talked of various matters."
Our author then proceeded to visit Dr. Porteus at Hunton, and Mrs.
Montagu at Sandleford, but was obliged to quit the latter place sooner
than he had intended, on account of the illness of his son, who shewed
symptoms of that consumptive complaint to which he afterwards fell a
victim. For the sake of medical advice Beattie carried him back to the
metropolis, and from thence, by very easy stages, to Aberdeen. Soon
after his return to Scotland, the invalid improved so much in health
that he was able to take upon him part of the management of the class of
Moral Philosophy in the Marischal College, having been appointed in June
of this year (when he was not quite nineteen) assistant professor to his
father.
In 1790, Beattie put forth the first volume of his _Elements of Moral
Science_; and superintended an edition of Addison's Periodical Papers,
adding a few notes to Tickell's Life of that author, and to Johnson's
Remarks on his Prose Writings. The second volume of the _Transactions of
the Royal Society of Edinburgh_, published during this year, contains
'Remarks on some Passages of the Sixth Book of the Æneid,' from
Beattie's pen.
He had now to suffer the dire bereavement which he had long foreseen,
the loss of his eldest son, the object of his fondest affection. He thus
informs the Duchess of Gordon of the melancholy event:
"Aberdeen, 1st December, 1790.
"Knowing with what kindness and condescension your grace takes an
interest in every thing that concerns me and my little family, I
take the liberty to inform you, that my son James is dead; that the
last duties to him are now paid; and that I am endeavouring to
return, with the little ability that is left me, and with entire
submission to the will of Providence, to the ordinary business of
life. I have lost one who was always a pleasing companion; but who,
for the last five or six years, was one of the most entertaining and
instructive companions that ever man was blest with: for his mind
comprehended almost every science; he was a most attentive observer
of life and manners; a master of classical learning; and he
possessed an exuberance of wit and humour, a force of understanding,
and a correctness and delicacy of taste, beyond any other person of
his age I have ever known.
"He was taken ill in the night of the 30th of November, 1789; and
from that time his decline commenced. It was long what physicians
call a nervous atrophy; but towards the end of June, symptoms began
to appear of the lungs being affected. Goats' milk, and afterwards
asses' milk, were procured for him in abundance; and such exercise
as he could bear, he regularly took; these means lengthened his days
no doubt, and alleviated his sufferings, which indeed were not often
severe: but, in spite of all that could be done, he grew weaker and
weaker, and died the 19th of November, 1790, without complaint or
pain, without even a groan or a sigh; retaining to the last moment
the use of his rational faculties; indeed, from first to last, not
one delirious word ever escaped him. He lived twenty-two years and
thirteen days. Many weeks before it came, he saw death approaching,
and he met it with such composure and pious resignation, as may no
doubt be equalled, but cannot be surpassed.
"He has left many things in writing, serious and humorous,
scientific and miscellaneous, prose and verse, Latin and English;
but it will be a long time before I shall be able to harden my heart
so far as to revise them."
In April of the following year, Beattie again travelled southwards,
accompanied by Montagu,[X] his second son and only surviving child.
They remained some weeks in Edinburgh, and then journeyed slowly to
London, which after a short stay they quitted for the summer residence
of Dr. Porteus, who was now elevated to the see of the metropolis. The
tranquillity of Fulham Palace, and the kind attentions of its
inhabitants, contributed greatly to amend the health and raise the
spirits of our author; and he seems to have enjoyed the company of the
distinguished persons with whom he had an opportunity of associating.
"Last week," he writes to Sir William Forbes, 30th June, 1791, "I made a
morning visit to Mr. Pitt. I had heard him spoken of as a grave and
reserved man; but saw nothing of it. He gave me a very frank, and indeed
affectionate reception; and was so cheerful, and in his conversation so
easy, that I almost thought myself in the company rather of an old
acquaintance than of a great statesman. He was pleased to pay me some
very obliging compliments, asked about my health, and how I meant to
pass the summer; spoke of the Duchess of Gordon, the improvements of
Edinburgh, and various other matters: and when I told him, I knew not
what apology to make for intruding upon him, said, that no apology was
necessary, for that he was very glad to see me, and desired to see me
again." Before returning to Scotland, the travellers went to Bath, and
from thence to Sandleford, the seat of Mrs. Montagu.
The second volume of the _Elements of Moral Science_ appeared in 1793.
During the same year the sudden death of his favourite sister, Mrs.
Valentine, increased the domestic sorrows of Beattie. His health was at
this period so greatly impaired, that being unable to attend to his
duties of Professor in the Marischal College, he engaged his old pupil,
Mr. Glennie, as an assistant: occasionally, however, he continued to
lecture to his class till the commencement of the winter session of
1797.
For some time past he had occupied himself in the melancholy yet
pleasing task of editing a volume of the compositions of his eldest son.
From a pardonable partiality for the writings of a beloved child, and
from his not very accurate attainments in classical scholarship, he
admitted into the collection several pieces, both English and Latin,
which fall considerably below mediocrity. A few copies of the work were
privately printed in 1794, under the title of _Essays and Fragments in
Prose and Verse, by James Hay Beattie_, and were "offered as presents to
those friends with whom the author was particularly acquainted or
connected."[Y] Though it undoubtedly shows that the deceased was a
young man of uncommon quickness of talent, and the most indefatigable
application, it exhibits nothing which has a claim to be considered as
the offspring of genius.[Z] The most interesting portion of the volume
is the biographical sketch prefixed to it by the afflicted father, a
memoir of exquisite simplicity and pathos. The account given by Beattie
of the method which he adopted in imparting to his son the first idea
of a Supreme Being is too striking to be omitted here:
"The doctrines of religion I wished to impress on his mind, as soon as
it might be prepared to receive them; but I did not see the propriety of
making him commit to memory theological sentences, or any sentences
which it was not possible for him to understand. And I was desirous to
make a trial how far his own reason could go in tracing out, with a
little direction, the great and first principle of all religion, the
being of God. The following fact is mentioned, not as a proof of
superior sagacity in him (for I have no doubt that most children would
in like circumstances think as he did), but merely as a moral or logical
experiment: He had reached his fifth (or sixth) year, knew the alphabet,
and could read a little; but had received no particular information with
respect to the Author of his being; because I thought he could not yet
understand such information; and because I had learned, from my own
experience, that to be made to repeat words not understood is extremely
detrimental to the faculties of a young mind. In a corner of a little
garden, without informing any person of the circumstance, I wrote in the
mould, with my finger, the three initial letters of his name; and sowing
garden-cresses in the furrows, covered up the seed, and smoothed the
ground. Ten days after, he came running to me, and with astonishment in
his countenance, told me that his name was growing in the garden. I
smiled at the report, and seemed inclined to disregard it; but he
insisted on my going to see what had happened. Yes, said I carelessly,
on coming to the place, I see it is so; but there is nothing in this
worth notice; it is mere chance; and I went away. He followed me and
taking hold of my coat, said, with some earnestness, It could not be
mere chance; for that somebody must have contrived matters so as to
produce it.--I pretend not to give his words, or my own, for I have
forgotten both; but I give the substance of what passed between us in
such language as we both understood.--So you think, I said, that what
appears so regular as the letters of your name, cannot be by chance.
Yes, said he, with firmness, I think so. Look at yourself, I replied,
and consider your hands and fingers, your legs and feet, and other
limbs; are not they regular in their appearance, and useful to you? He
said, they were. Came you then hither, said I, by chance? No, he
answered, that cannot be; something must have made me. And who is that
something? I asked. He said he did not know. (I took particular notice,
that he did not say, as Rousseau fancies a child in like circumstances
would say, that his parents made him.) I had now gained the point I
aimed at, and saw that his reason taught him (though he could not so
express it) that what begins to be must have a cause, and that what is
formed with regularity must have an intelligent cause. I therefore told
him the name of the Great Being who made him and all the world;
concerning whose adorable nature I gave him such information as I
thought he could in some measure comprehend. The lesson affected him
greatly, and he never forgot either it, or the circumstance that
introduced it."
After the loss of this highly-gifted youth, the only tie which bound
Beattie to the world was his second son, who, though far inferior to the
deceased in learning, was endowed with no ordinary talents.[AA] Just as
our author was anxiously forming plans for his future establishment in
life, Montagu was unexpectedly carried off by a fever of only a few
days' continuance, in the eighteenth year of his age. Beattie thus
communicates to Sir William Forbes the intelligence of his death:
"Aberdeen, 14th March, 1796.
"Our plans relating to Montagu are all at an end. I am sorry to give
you the pain of being informed, that he died this morning at five.
His disorder was a fever, from which at first we had little
apprehension; but it cut him off in five days. He himself thought
from the beginning that it would be fatal; and, before the delirium
came on, spoke with great composure and Christian piety of his
approaching dissolution: he even gave some directions about his
funeral. The delirium was very violent, and continued till within a
few minutes of his death, when he was heard to repeat in a whisper
the Lord's prayer, and began an unfinished sentence, of which
nothing could be heard but the words _incorruptible glory_. Pious
sentiments prevailed in his mind through life, and did not leave him
till death; nor then, I trust, did they leave him. Notwithstanding
the extreme violence of his fever, he seemed to suffer little pain,
either in body or in mind, and as his end drew near, a smile settled
upon his countenance. I need not tell you that he had every
attention that skilful and affectionate physicians could bestow.
I give you the trouble to notify this event to Mr. Arbuthnot.
I would have written to him, but have many things to mind, and
but indifferent health. However, I heartily acquiesce in the
dispensations of Providence, which are all good and wise. God bless
you and your family.
"He will be much regretted; for wherever he went he was a very
popular character."
Such an effect had this fresh calamity on the intellectual powers of
Beattie, that a few days after Montagu's death, he experienced a
temporary hut almost utter loss of memory respecting him. Having
searched every room in the house, he would say to his niece, Mrs.
Glennie, "You may think it strange, but I must ask you if I have a son,
and where he is?" She then felt herself under the painful necessity of
calling to his recollection the sufferings of Montagu, the mention of
which never failed to restore him to reason. Often with tears he would
declare himself thankful that his children were in the grave,
exclaiming, in allusion to their mother's malady, "How could I have
borne to see their elegant minds mangled with madness!" On viewing the
dead body of Montagu for the last time, he said, "I have now done with
the world."
The following passages from two of his letters, written about this
period, are deeply affecting. He tells the Rev. Dr. Laing, 10th April,
1796:
"I hope I am resigned, as my duty requires, and as I wish to be; but I
have passed many a bitter hour, though on those occasions nobody sees
me. I fear my reason is a little disordered, for I have sometimes
thought of late, especially in a morning, that Montagu is not dead,
though I seem to have a remembrance of a dream that he is. This you will
say, what I myself believe, is a symptom not uncommon in cases similar
to mine, and that I ought by all means to go from home as soon as I can.
I will do so when the weather becomes tolerable."
To Sir William Forbes he says, 17th of the same month:
"I have been these many days resolving to write to you and Mr.
Arbuthnot, to thank you for your very kind and sympathetic letters, but
various things have come in my way to prevent it. I need not pretend a
hurry of business, for every-body knows I am not capable of any. A deep
gloom hangs upon me, and disables all my faculties; and thoughts so
strange sometimes occur to me as to make me 'fear that I am not,' as
Lear says, 'in my perfect mind.' But I thank God I am entirely resigned
to the divine will; and, though I am now childless, I have friends
whose goodness to me, and other virtues, I find great comfort in
recollecting. The physicians not only advise, but entreat, and indeed
command me to go from home, and that without further delay; and I do
seriously resolve to set out for Edinburgh to-morrow."
Though Beattie never from henceforth engaged in any kind of study, he
still found some enjoyment in books, and still derived some pleasure
from the society of a very few of his oldest friends. He almost entirely
ceased to correspond, even with those whom he most valued; yet when he
happened to receive a letter from any of them, his spirits were always
excited for the rest of the day. Music, in which he had once delighted,
had become disagreeable to him since the loss of his eldest son.[AB] A
few months, however, before Montagu's death, he had occasionally played
an accompaniment while Montagu sung; but now, when prevailed on to
resume his favourite violoncello, he was always dissatisfied with his
own performance. "My fingers," he writes to the Rev. Dr. Laing, 5th
June, 1798, "have not strength to press down the strings."
In this state he continued till the beginning of April, 1799, when he
was struck with palsy, which, for eight days, rendered him nearly
incapable of utterance. At different times the disease repeated its
attacks, the last of which, on the 5th of October, 1802, deprived him
entirely of the power of motion. On the morning of the 18th of August,
1803, he expired without a struggle, in the sixty-eighth year of his
age.
His remains were laid, according to his own desire, beside those of his
children, in the church-yard of St. Nicholas, at Aberdeen; and a Latin
inscription, from the pen of the late Dr. James Gregory, of Edinburgh,
marks the spot of his interment.
In person he was of the middle size, of a broad, square make, which
seemed to indicate a more robust constitution than he really possessed.
In his gait there was something of a slouch. During his later years he
grew corpulent and unwieldy; but a few months before his death his hulk
was greatly diminished. His features were very regular; his complexion
somewhat dark. His eyes were black, brilliant, full of a tender and
melancholy expression, and, in the course of conversation with his
friends, became extremely animated.
Though I am of opinion with Gilbert Wakefield, that the maxim _De
mortuis nil nisi_ VERUM is better than _De mortuis nil nisi_ BONUM, it
is with pain that I touch on the reported failing of so truly good a man
as Beattie. It has been asserted that towards the close of life he
indulged to excess in the use of wine. In a letter to Mr. Arbuthnot, he
says, "With the present pressure upon my mind, I should not be able to
sleep, if I did not use wine as an opiate; it is less hurtful than
laudanum, but not so effectual." He may, perhaps, have had too frequent
recourse to so palatable a medicine, in the hope of banishing for a
while the recollection of his sorrows; and if, under any circumstances,
such a fault is to be regarded as venial, it may be excused in one who
was a more than widowed husband and a childless father.
The prose writings of Beattie appear of late years to have fallen into
disrepute; and the once celebrated _Essay on Truth_ is at present as
much undervalued as it was formerly overrated.
His fame now rests upon _The Minstrel_ alone. Since its first
publication, many poems of a far loftier and more original character
have been produced in England; yet still does it maintain its
popularity; and still in Edwin, that happy personification of the poetic
temperament, do young and enthusiastic readers delight to recognize a
picture of themselves. Though we cannot fail to regret that Beattie
should have left it incomplete, yet we do not long for the concluding
books from any interest which we take in the story, such as is excited
by some other unfinished works of genius, the tale of _Cambuscan_, for
instance, or the legend of _Christabel_. In _The Minstrel_, indeed,
there is but little invention; it is a poem of sentiment and
description, conveying to us lessons of true philosophy in language of
surpassing beauty, and displaying pictures of nature, in her romantic
solitudes, painted by a master's hand. "On my once asking Dr. Beattie,"
says Sir William Forbes, "in what manner he had intended to employ his
Minstrel, had he completed his original design of extending the poem to
a third canto, he said, he proposed to have introduced a foreign enemy
as invading his country, in consequence of which the Minstrel was to
employ himself in rousing his countrymen to arms."[AC] But surely such a
conclusion would have formed too violent a contrast to the repose of the
earlier books; and the charm which attaches us to the meditative Edwin,
while a wanderer among the lonely hills and groves, would have been
broken, or at least weakened, by placing him amid the throng of warriors
and the din of arms.
With the exception of _The Hermit_ and the following exquisite
stanza[AD] of _Retirement_, there is little worthy of particular notice
in the minor poems of Beattie.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] "At his leisure hours he cultivated the muses. A journal kept by
him, as well as some specimens of his poetry, are still in the
possession of his descendants. This last circumstance is the more worthy
of being noticed, as it proves that Dr. Beattie derived his poetical
turn from his father."--Bower's _Life of Beattie_, 1804, p. 2.
[B] According to Bower, Beattie was supported at college by the
generosity of his brother David, who accompanied him to Aberdeen, when
he first quitted Laurencekirk to commence his course at the University.
"The peculiar mode of their conveyance to Aberdeen is a matter of very
trifling moment. It may not be unacceptable to some, however, to be
informed, that they rode on one horse; and at a season of the year not
the most agreeable for undertaking a journey (when good roads were
unknown in Scotland) of thirty English miles."--_Life of Beattie_, 1804,
p. 17.
[C] _Life of Homer_, _Court of Augustus_, &c.
[D] Bower's _Life of Beattie_, 1804, p. 89.
[E] _Ibid._ p. 100.
[F] Lord Gardenstone was himself a votary of the muses, though his
verses are now forgotten. As a satirical poet he is far from
contemptible.
[G] Robert Arbuthnot, Esq., Secretary to the Board of Trustees for
Fisheries, Manufactures, and improvements in Scotland, who resided
chiefly at Peterhead, where he carried on business as a merchant; a
person of considerable taste and learning. He was nearly related to the
famous Dr. Arbuthnot, the friend of Pope and Swift.
[H] Sir William Forbes says it "had a rapid sale." Mr. A. Chalmers,
however (_Poets_, vol. xviii. p. 519), doubts if it was ever published
for sale, except in Beattie's _Poems_, 1766, in the Advertisement to
which we are told that it "appeared in a separate pamphlet in the
beginning of the year 1765." I have been unable to meet with the
original edition.
[I] I have been told that the poem consisted originally of only four
stanzas, and that the two beautiful ones with which it now concludes
were added, a considerable time after the others were written, at the
request of Mrs. Carnegie, of Charlton, near Montrose. This lady, whose
maiden name was Scott, was authoress of a poem called _Dunotter Castle_,
printed in the second edition of Colman and Thornton's _Poems by Eminent
Ladies_.
'Pentland Hills', for which Beattie wrote _The Hermit_, was an air
composed by Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, in imitation of the old
Scottish melodies.
[J] On one occasion, I have been informed, she took some China jars from
the chimney-piece, and carefully arranged them on the top of the parlour
door, in order that when Beattie opened it, they might fall upon his
head.
[K] Beattie's Verses were printed in the Aberdeen Journal, together with
an introductory letter in prose also by him, signed "Oliver Oldstile."
The writer of the Life of Ross, in that pleasing compilation, _Lives of
Scottish Poets_, 3 vols. 1822, says: "The author of both productions was
generally understood to be Dr. Beattie; and they have remained so long
ascribed to him without contradiction, that there can be little doubt of
their being from his pen." _Part_ iii. p. 107. There is no doubt about
the matter; Beattie owns them in a letter to Blacklock.--Forbes's _Life
of Beattie_, vol. i. p. 153. ed. 1807. _The Fortunate Shepherdess_ is a
poem of great merit: to the second edition of it (and I believe to all
subsequent editions) Beattie's verses are prefixed.
[L] Dr. Reid.
[M] Dr. Campbell.
[N] Mr. Hume, who at an early period had been the patron of Blacklock.
Long before the date of this letter they had ceased to have any
intercourse.
[O]
"O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven,
O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!"
"I have often wished," says Beattie, in a note on Gray's letter, "to
alter this same word [_garniture_], but have not yet been able to hit
upon a better."
[P] See p. xv.
[Q] At a subsequent period, after the king had granted him a pension, he
received two offers of church preferment in England--the one from Mr.
Pitt, of Dorsetshire, of a living in that county worth £150 per annum,
the other from Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Winchester, of a living in Hants,
valued at £500 a year--neither of which he would accept. In the letter
wherein he declines the second noble offer, he thus expresses himself:
"I wrote the 'Essays on Truth' with the certain prospect of raising many
enemies, with very faint hopes of attracting the public attention, and
without any views of advancing my fortune. I published it, however,
because I thought it might probably do a little good, by bringing to
nought, or, at least, lessening the reputation of that wretched system
of sceptical philosophy, which had made a most alarming progress, and
done incredible mischief to this country. My enemies have been at great
pains to represent my views, in that publication, as very different: and
that my principal, or only motive was to make a book, and, if possible,
to raise myself higher in the world. So that, if I were now to accept
preferment in the church, I should be apprehensive that I might
strengthen the hands of the gainsayer, and give the world some ground to
believe that my love of truth was not quite so ardent, or so pure, as I
had pretended.
"Besides, might it not have the appearance of levity and insincerity,
and, by some, be construed into a want of principle, if I were, at these
years (for I am now thirty-eight), to make such an important change in
my way of life, and to quit, with no other _apparent_ motive than that
of bettering my circumstances, that church of which I have hitherto been
a member? If my book has any tendency to do good, as I flatter myself it
has, I would not, for the wealth of the Indies, do any thing to
counteract that tendency; and I am afraid that tendency might, in some
measure be counteracted (at least in this country) if I were to give the
adversary the least ground to charge me with inconsistency. It is true,
that the force of my reasonings cannot be _really_ affected by my
character; truth is truth, whoever be the speaker; but even truth itself
becomes less respectable, when spoken, or supposed to be spoken, by
insincere lips.
"It has also been hinted to me, by several persons of very sound
judgment, that what I have written, or may hereafter write in favour of
religion, has a chance of being more attended to, if I continue a
layman, than if I were to become a clergyman. Nor am I without
apprehensions (though some of my friends think them ill founded) that,
from entering so late in life, and from so remote a province, into the
Church of England, some degree of ungracefulness, particularly in
pronunciation, might adhere to my performances in public, sufficient to
render them less pleasing, and consequently less useful."
[R] So Beattie names the figures in one of his letters; but Sir William
Forbes tells us they are supposed to mean Sophistry, Scepticism, and
Infidelity. The worthy Baronet proceeds to observe:
"Because one of these was a lean figure and the [an] other a fat one,
people of lively imaginations pleased themselves with finding in them
the portraits of Voltaire and Mr. Hume. But Sir Joshua, I have reason to
believe, had no such thought when he painted those figures."
Surely Sir William had never read all the letters which he printed in
his _Life of Beattie_, for in vol. ii. p. 42, octavo ed., we find the
great painter writing to our poet as follows, in February, 1774:
"Mr. Hume has heard from somebody that he is introduced in the picture,
not much to his credit; there is only a figure, covering his face with
his hands, which they may call Hume or any body else; _it is true it has
a tolerable broad back. As for Voltaire, I intended he should be one of
the group._"
This fine picture is now at Aberdeen, in the possession of Beattie's
niece, Mrs. Glennie.
[S] When Beattie was in London, in 1773, and when it was doubtful
whether government would ever make any provision for him, his friends
there set on foot a subscription for this work. "It was a thing," says
he, in a letter to Lady Mayne, January, 1774, "of a private nature
entirely; projected not by me, but by some of my friends, who had
condescended to charge themselves with the whole trouble of it: it was
never meant to be made public, nor put into the hands of booksellers,
nor carried on by solicitation, but was to be considered as a
_voluntary_ mark of the approbation of some persons of rank and fortune,
who wished it to be known that they patronized me on account of what I
had written in defence of truth," &c. Prefixed to the volume is a list
of nearly five hundred subscribers, among whom are many distinguished
characters in church and state.
[T] A spurious edition of his Juvenile Poems, with some which he never
wrote, from Dodsley's _Collection_, was put forth in 1780. This volume
he disowned in a public advertisement.
[U] Perhaps it was not printed till the beginning of the following year.
In a letter to Beattie, dated Feb. 1st, 1779, Mrs. Montagu says, "I was
much pleased with your pamphlet on Psalmody."
[V] He was born in 1768, and was named after James Hay, Earl of Errol,
our author's early patron.
[W] Writing from Edinburgh, 28th May, 1784, to his niece, Miss Valentine
(now Mrs. Glennie), Beattie describes the sensation caused in that city
by the performances of Mrs. Siddons. He says that he met her at the
house of Lord Buchan; that he played to her many Scotch airs on the
violoncello, with which she was much gratified; and that "she sung
'Queen Mary's Complaint' to admiration, and I had the honour to
accompany her on the bass."--Forbes's _Life of Beattie_, vol. ii. p.
324, octavo ed.
I am informed, by the incomparable actress in question, that the
quotation just given contains an utter falsehood, which, when Forbes's
Life of our author first appeared, in 1806, she read with astonishment.
She remembers perfectly having been introduced to Beattie at Lord
Buchan's, but she is quite certain she did _not_ sing either Queen
Mary's Complaint or any other song; and she observes, that if she _had_
sung to his accompaniment, the circumstance would have been so striking
that it could not possibly have escaped her recollection.
Qy. Has Beattie's letter been mutilated, the person who transcribed it
for the press having by mistake omitted some lines? and do the words
"she sung," in the concluding sentence, refer to some other more musical
lady, and not to Mrs. Siddons?
[X] He was so named after Mrs. Montagu. From one of Beattie's letters,
dated 1789, it appears that she had made a handsome present of money to
her godson.
[Y] I possess a copy of it which bears the following inscription:
"To William Hayley, Esq.,
in testimony of the utmost respect,
esteem, and gratitude, from J. Beattie.
1st January, 1796."
On one of its fly-leaves the ever-ready pen of Hayley has written the
subjoined sonnet:
TO DOCTOR BEATTIE, IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF HIS VERY INTERESTING
PRESENT.
"Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tears
For this fond work of thy paternal hand:
It bids the buried youth before me stand
In nature's softest light, which love endears.
Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres,
Faithful to pure affection's proud command,
For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd,
To give in fame what fate denied in years.
The filial form of Icarus was wrought
By his afflicted sire, the sire of art!
And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart:
That fane rose only in perturbed thought;
But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun,
This Christian image of thy happier son."
[Z] It was afterwards published for sale in 1799. I extract from it a
jeu d'esprit--one of those pieces which Beattie printed, in opposition
to the advice of Sir William Forbes and some other grave friends.
THE MODERN TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.
FATHER HODGE[1] had his pipe and his dram,
And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken,
He was served with a rasher of ham,
Which procured him the surname of _Bacon_.
He has shown that, though logical science
And dry theory oft prove unhandy,
Honest Truth will ne'er set at defiance
Experiment, aided by brandy.
Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us,
Ere he wished, or was able, to write,
And was noted among the brave fellows,
Who are bolder to tipple than fight.
Of his system the cause and design
We no more can be pos'd to explain:--
The _materia subtilis_ was wine,
And the _vortices_ whirl'd in his brain.
Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows,
At a _hob-nob_ was frequently tried:
That all virtue from selfishness rose
He believ'd, and all laughter from pride.[2]
The truth of his creed he would brag on,
Smoke his pipe, murder Homer,[3] and quaff,
Then staring, as drunk as a dragon,
In the pride of his heart he would laugh.
Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems,
The nature of colors and light,
In remarking the tremulous beams
That swom on his wandering sight.
Ever sapient, sober though seldom,
From experience _attraction_ he found,
By observing, when no one upheld him,
That his wise head fell souse on the ground.
As to Berkley's philosophy--he has
Left his poor pupils nought to inherit,
But a swarm of deceitful ideas
Kept like other monsters, in spirit.[4]
Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter,
That their health does not mend, but decline:
Why, they take but some wine to their water,
He took but some water to wine.
One Mandeville once, or Man-devil,
(Either name you may give as you please)
By a brain ever brooding on evil,
Hatch'd a monster call'd _Fable of Bees_,
Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people;[5]
By this light let my conduct be view'd;
I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple:
And d---- ye, 'tis all for your good.
David Hume ate a swinging great dinner,
And grew every day fatter and fatter;
And yet the huge hulk of a sinner
Said there was neither spirit nor matter.
Now there's no sober man in the nation,
Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think:
It follows, by fair demonstration,
That he philosophiz'd in his drink.
As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin;
Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening,
While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin,
Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning.[6]
In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf),
Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye,
That unable to manage himself,
He puts his whole trust in Necessity.
If the young in rash folly engage,
How closely continues the evil!
Old Franklin retains, as a sage,
The thirst he acquired when a devil.[7]
That charging drives fire from a phial,
It was natural for him to think,
After finding, from many a trial,
That drought may be kindled by drink.
A certain high priest could explain,[8]
How the soul is but nerve at the most;
And how Milton had glands in his brain,
That secreted the Paradise Lost.
And sure it is what they deserve,
Of such theories if I aver it,
They are not even dictates of nerve,
But mere muddy suggestions of claret.
Our Holland Philosophers say, Gin
Is the true philosophical drink,
As it made Doctor Hartley imagine
That to _shake_ is the same as to _think_.[9]
For, while drunkenness throbb'd in his brain,
The sturdy materialist chose (O fye!)
To believe its vibrations not pain,
But wisdom, and downright philosophy.
Ye sages, who shine in my verse,
On my labours with gratitude think,
Which condemn not the faults they rehearse,
But impute all your sin to your drink.
In drink, poets, philosophers, mob, err;
Then excuse if my satire e'er nips ye:
When I praise, think me prudent and sober,
If I blame, be assur'd I am tipsy.
[1] Roger Bacon, the father of experimental philosophy. He
flourished in the thirteenth century.
[2] See _The Spectator_, No. 47.
[3] Hobbes was a great smoker, and wrote what some have been
pleased to call a Translation of Homer.
[4] He taught that the external universe has no existence,
but an ideal one, in the mind (or _spirit_) that perceives
it; and he thought tar-water a universal remedy.
[5] Private vices public benefits.
[6] Electrical batteries.
[7] Bred a printer. This was written long before Dr.
Franklin's death.
[8] Dr. L., Bp. of C., is probably the person here alluded
to. He was a zealous materialist.
[9] He resolved Perception and Thinking into _vibrations_,
and (what he called) _vibratiuncles_ of the brain.
[AA] "I have been assured by those who were intimately acquainted with
both, that of the two brothers, Montagu was in many respects the
superior."
Bower's _Life of Beattie_, 1804, p. 210.
[AB] James Hay Beattie had a scientific knowledge of music, and, with the
assistance of the Rev. Dr. Laing, had superintended the building an
organ for himself. In one of our author's letters, 8th June, 1791, is
the following passage:
"The organ of Durham cathedral was too much for my feelings; for it
brought too powerfully to my remembrance another organ, much smaller,
indeed, but more interesting, which I can never hear any more."
[AC] See, too, Beattie's letter to Blacklock, p. xv. of this memoir.
[AD]
Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream:
_Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose._
ADVERTISEMENT.
January, 1777.
Having lately seen in print some poems ascribed to me which I never
wrote, and some of my own inaccurately copied, I thought it would not be
improper to publish, in this little volume, all the verses of which I am
willing to be considered as the author. Many others I did indeed write
in the early part of my life; but they were in general so incorrect,
that I would not rescue them from oblivion, even if a wish could do it.
Some of the few now offered to the Public would perhaps have been
suppressed, if in making this collection I had implicitly followed my
own judgment. But in so small a matter, who would refuse to submit his
opinion to that of a friend?
It is of no consequence to the reader to know the date of any of these
little poems. But some private reasons determined the author to add,
that most of them were written many years age, and that the greatest
part of the MINSTREL, which is his latest attempt in this way, was
composed in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight.
PREFACE TO THE MINSTREL.
The design was to trace the progress of a Poetical Genius, born in a
rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period
at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a
Minstrel, that is, as an itinerant Poet and Musician;--a character
which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was not only
respectable, but sacred.
I have endeavoured to imitate Spenser in the measure of his verse, and
in the harmony, simplicity, and variety of his composition. Antique
expressions I have avoided; admitting, however, some old words, where
they seemed to suit the subject; but I hope none will be found that are
now obsolete, or in any degree not intelligible to a reader of English
poetry.
To those who may be disposed to ask, what could induce me to write in so
difficult a measure, I can only answer that it pleases my ear, and
seems, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear some relation to
the subject and spirit of the Poem. It admits both simplicity and
magnificence of sound and of language beyond any other stanza that I am
acquainted with. It allows the sententiousness of the couplet, as well
as the more complex modulation of blank verse. What some critics have
remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the ear, will be
found to hold true, only when the poetry is faulty in other respects.
THE MINSTREL.
BOOK I.
Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musæ,
Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore,
Accipiant.---- VIRG.
THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.
BOOK I.
I.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Has felt the influence of malignant star,
And waged with Fortune an eternal war;
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar,
In life's low vale remote has pined alone,
Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!
II.
And yet the languor of inglorious days,
Not equally oppressive is to all:
Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,
The silence of neglect can ne'er appall.
There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;
Supremely blest, if to their portion fall
Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim
Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.
III.
The rolls of fame I will not now explore;
Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,
How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore,
Right glad of heart, though homely in array;
His waving locks and beard all hoary gray;
While from his bending shoulder decent hung
His harp, the sole companion of his way,
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.
IV.
Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,
That a poor villager inspires my strain;
With thee let Pageantry and Power abide:
The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;
Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain
Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms:
They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,
The parasite their influence never warms,
Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.
V.
Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float;
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the gray linnets carol from the hill:
O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,
But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!
VI.
Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;
Nor was perfection made for man below:
Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,
Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow;
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;
There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;
Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,
And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.
VII.
Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse
The imperial banquet, and the rich attire:
Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.
Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?
No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,
To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd;
Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.
VIII.
Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul
In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,
On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,
Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen;
Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen,
Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,
(The mansion then no more of joy serene),
Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide,
And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?
IX.
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven,
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
X.
These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.
But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth
E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart:
For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart;
Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme,
The stern resolve unmov'd by pity's smart,
The troublous day, and long distressful dream.
Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme.
XI.
There liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;
But he, I ween, was of the north countrie;[1]
A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms;
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.
XII.
The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;
An honest heart was almost all his stock:
His drink the living water from the rock;
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;
And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent,
Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.
XIII.
From labour health, from health contentment springs:
Contentment opes the source of every joy.
He envied not, he never thought of, kings;
Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy,
That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy:
Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd;
He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy,
For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd,
And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.
XIV.
No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;
Each season look'd delightful, as it past,
To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life
They never roam'd: secure beneath the storm
Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife,
Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm
Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.
XV.
The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold,
Was all the offspring of this humble pair;
His birth no oracle or seer foretold;
No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,
Nor aught that might a strange event declare.
You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;
The parent's transport, and the parent's care;
The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;
And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.
XVI.
And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy,
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye.
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy:
Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;
And now his look was most demurely sad;
And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.
The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad:
Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.
XVII.
But why should I his childish feats display?
Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;
Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head,
Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.
XVIII.
Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.
His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed
To work the woe of any living thing,
By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling;
These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield:
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field;
And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.
XIX.
Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?
Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.
XX.
And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,
When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn:
Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for a while;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,
And villager abroad at early toil.
But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.
XXI.
And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,
When all in mist the world below was lost.
What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tost
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!
XXII.
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene.
In darkness and in storm he found delight:
Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene
The southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.[2]
Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul:
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.
XXIII.
"O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!"
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)
"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!
Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?
Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?
For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,
And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.
XXIV.
"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd!
Ah! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish pool
Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd;
Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray:
And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.
XXV.
"Yet such the destiny of all on Earth:
So flourishes and fades majestic Man.
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,
And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan.
O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime
Nor lessen of his life the little span!
Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
XXVI.
"And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn:
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed?
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.
XXVII.
"Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive
With disappointment, penury, and pain?
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,
Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."
XXVIII.
This truth sublime his simple sire had taught.
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.
No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought,
Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue.
"Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view,
Be man's peculiar work his sole delight."
And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew
Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,
By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might.
XXIX.
"And, from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,
O never, never turn away thine ear!
Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!
To others do (the law is not severe)
What to thyself thou wishest to be done.
Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,
And friends, and native land; nor those alone;
All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."
XXX.
See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower
The visionary boy from shelter fly;
For now the storm of summer rain is o'er,
And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky,
And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high,
The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun!
Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh,
How vain the chace thine ardour has begun!
'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run.
XXXI.
Yet could'st thou learn, that thus it fares with age,
When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm,
This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage,
And disappointment of her sting disarm.
But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm?
Perish the lore that deadens young desire;
Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm,
Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire:
Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire.
XXXII.
When the long-sounding curfew from afar
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale,
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale.
There would he dream of graves, and corses pale;
And ghosts that to the charnel dungeon throng,
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,
Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song,
Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along.
XXXIII.
Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dy'd,
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep,
To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep;
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep
A vision brought to his entranced sight.
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep
Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,
With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night.
XXXIV.
Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch
Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;
And forth an host of little warriors march,
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,
And green their helms, and green their silk attire;
And here and there, right venerably old,
The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire,
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.
XXXV.
With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;
The little warriors doff the targe and spear,
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance
Rapid along: with many-colour'd rays
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.
XXXVI.
The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day,
Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill,
Fell chanticleer! who oft hast reft away
My fancied good, and brought substantial ill!
O to thy cursed scream, discordant still,
Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear;
Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill,
Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear,
And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear!
XXXVII.
Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line.
Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so.
For how should he at wicked chance repine,
Who feels from every change amusement flow!
Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,
As on he wanders through the scenes of morn,
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.
XXXVIII.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
XXXIX.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.
XL.
O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due!
Blest be the day I 'scap'd the wrangling crew,
From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;
And held high converse with the godlike few,
Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye,
Teach beauty, virtue, truth and love, and melody.
XLI.
Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind,
Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!
Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind,
Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane,
And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!
Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime
First gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign
(Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,)
With vengeance to pursue you sacrilegious crime.
XLII.
But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.
O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,
For well I know wherever ye reside,
There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide.
XLIII.
Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;
Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.
XLIV.
Various and strange was the long-winded tale;
And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd;
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;
The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,
And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,[3]
Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,
Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.
XLV.
But when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,
The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.
O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce
That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone?
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.
XLVI.
Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,[4]
The babes now famish'd lay them down to die;
Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,
Folded in one another's arms they lie;
Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry;
"For from the town the man returns no more."
But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,
This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,
When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.
XLVII.
A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy
Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear,
"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,
And innocence thus die by doom severe?"
O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel:
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel;
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.
XLVIII.
Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,
Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;
From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,
This soften and refine the soul for heaven.
But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven
To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:
Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,
But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.
XLIX.
Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,
Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,
Exclaim that nature hastens to decay,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend!
Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,
Which bade the series of events extend
Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end!
L.
One part, one little part, we dimly scan
Thro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream;
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem.
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.
O then renounce that impious self-esteem,
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies!
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.
LI.
Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years.
For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar
On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears;
Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore
Through microscope of metaphysic lore:
And much they grope for Truth, but never hit.
For why? Their powers inadequate before,
This idle art makes more and more unfit;
Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.
LII.
Nor was this ancient Dame a foe to mirth.
Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device
Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth;
Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice
To purchase chat or laughter at the price
Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed,
That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.
Ah! had they been of court or city breed,
Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.
LIII.
Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave,
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave
High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue:
Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new,
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,
More wildly great than ever pencil drew,
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,
And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.
LIV.
Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day,
Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,
Along the trembling wilderness to stray,
What time the lightning's fierce career began,
And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.
LV.
Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all
In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,
From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,
Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.
Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly,
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd!
Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy,
When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melancholy!
LVI.
Is there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn;
Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?
He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;
Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,
And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;
Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.
LVII.
For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit.
The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,
And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.
His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute:
Of elegance as yet he took no care;
For this of time and culture is the fruit;
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare:
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.
LVIII.
Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,
Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,
By chance, or search was offered to his view,
He scann'd with curious and romantic eye.
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply
From gothic tale, or song, or fable old,
Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry.
At last, though long by penury control'd,
And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.
LIX.
Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern cave the storms are bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.[5]
LX.
Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while.
The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.
But on this verse if Montagu should smile,
New strains ere long shall animate thy frame.
And her applause to me is more than fame;
For still with truth accords her taste refined.
At lucre or renown let others aim,
I only wish to please the gentle mind,
Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind.
[1] There is hardly an ancient ballad, or romance wherein a Minstrel or
a Harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have
been "of the north countrie." It is probable, that under this
appellation were formerly comprehended all the provinces to the north of
the Trent. See Percy's Essay on the English Minstrels.
[2] Brightness, splendour. The word is used by some late writers, as
well as by Milton.
[3] Allusion to Shakspeare.
_Macbeth._ How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?
What is 't you do?
_Witches._ A deed without a name.
_Macbeth, Act iv. Scene 1._
[4] See the fine old ballad, called The Children in the Wood.
[5] Spring and Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time
the Sun enters Cancer, their fields which a week before were covered
with snow, appear on a sudden full of grass and flowers.--_Scheffer's
History of Lapland_, p. 16.
THE MINSTREL.
BOOK II.
Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam,
Rectique cultus pectora roborant. HORAT.
THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.
BOOK II.
I.
Of chance or change O let not man complain,
Else shall he never never cease to wail:
For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,
All feel th' assault of fortune's fickle gale;
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd;
Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble vale:
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd,
And where th' Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd.[1]
II.
But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine:
But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace,
Of candour, love, or sympathy divine,
Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine!
III.
So I, obsequious to truth's dread command,
Shall here without reluctance change my lay,
And smite the gothic lyre with harsher hand;
Now when I leave that flowery path for aye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.
IV.
"Perish the lore that deadens young desire,"
Is the soft tenor of my song no more.
Edwin, though lov'd of Heaven, must not aspire
To bliss, which mortals never knew before.
On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar,
Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy:
But now and then the shades of life explore;
Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy,
And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.
V.
Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows,
The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower,
Some tints of transient beauty may disclose;
But soon it withers in the chilling hour.
Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power
Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise,
And from the stormy promontory tower,
And toss their giant arms amid the skies,
While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies.
VI.
And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice
Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime;
And walks of wider circuit were his choice,
And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime.
One evening, as he fram'd the careless rhyme,
It was his chance to wander far abroad,
And o'er a lonely eminence to climb,
Which heretofore his foot had never trode;
A vale appear'd below, a deep retir'd abode.
VII.
Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene.
For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell,
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green,
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell.
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell,
Whose long long groves eternal murmur made:
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell,
Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, survey'd
Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd.
VIII.
Along this narrow valley you might see
The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground,
And, here and there, a solitary tree,
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd.
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high;
And from the summit of that craggy mound
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or on resounding wings, to shoot athwart the sky.
IX.
One cultivated spot there was, that spread
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam,
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head,
And herbs for food with future plenty teem.
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream,
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul:
He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam,
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll;
When slowly on his ear these moving accents Stole:
X.
"Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose!
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes!
Here innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings.
O Solitude! the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.
XI.
"Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire?
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid:
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire?
It is thy weakness that requires their aid:
To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid?
They fear the thief and tremble in the storm:
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade?
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold, what deeds of woe the locust can perform!
XII.
"True dignity is his whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below;
Who every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow."
This strain from 'midst the rocks was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star;
And from embattled clouds emerging slow
Cynthia came riding on her silver car;
And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.
XIII.
Soon did the solemn voice its theme renew;
(While Edwin wrapt in wonder listening stood)
"Ye tools and toys of tyranny, adieu,
Scorn'd by the wise, and hated by the good!
Ye only can engage the servile brood
Of Levity and Lust, who all their days,
Asham'd of truth and liberty, have woo'd
And hugg'd the chain that, glittering on their gaze,
Seems to outshine the pomp of heaven's empyreal blaze.
XIV.
"Like them, abandon'd to Ambition's sway,
I sought for glory in the paths of guile;
And fawn'd and smil'd, to plunder and betray,
Myself betray'd and plunder'd all the while;
So gnaw'd the viper the corroding file:
But now, with pangs of keen remorse, I rue
Those years of trouble and debasement vile.
Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue!
Fly, fly, detested thoughts, for ever from my view!
XV.
"The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care,
And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast,
Henceforth no earthly hope with Heaven shall share
This heart, where peace serenely shines at last.
And if for me no treasure be amass'd,
And if no future age shall hear my name,
I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast,
And with more leisure feed this pious flame,
Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame.
XVI.
"The end and the reward of toil is rest.
Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace.
Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possess'd,
Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease!
Ah! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece,
The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string,
The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece,
All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring,
If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring!
XVII.
"Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb
With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown,
In the deep dungeon of some gothic dome,
Where night and desolation ever frown.
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
XVIII.
"And thither let the village swain repair;
And, light of heart, the village maiden gay,
To deck with flowers her half-dishevel'd hair,
And celebrate the merry morn of May.
There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day
Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe;
And when mild Evening comes in mantle gray,
Let not the blooming band make haste to go;
No ghost, nor spell, my long, my last abode shall know.
XIX.
"For though I fly to 'scape from Fortune's rage,
And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn,
Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage,
Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn:
For virtue lost, and ruin'd man, I mourn.
O man! creation's pride, Heaven's darling child,
Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn,
Why from thy home are truth and joy exil'd,
And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defil'd?
XX.
"Along yon glittering sky what glory streams!
What majesty attends Night's lovely queen!
Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams;
And mountains rise, and oceans roll between,
And all conspire to beautify the scene.
But, in the mental world, what chaos drear!
What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien!
O when shall that eternal morn appear,
These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear!
XXI.
"O Thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven,
In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light,
Rose from th' abyss; when dark Confusion, driven
Down, down the bottomless profound of night,
Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight!
O glance on these sad shades one pitying ray,
To blast the fury of oppressive might,
Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway,
And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way!"
XXII.
Silence ensu'd; and Edwin rais'd his eyes
In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart.
"And is it thus in courtly life," he cries,
"That man to man acts a betrayer's part?
And dares he thus the gifts of Heaven pervert,
Each social instinct, and sublime desire?
Hail Poverty, if honour, wealth, and art,
If what the great pursue, and learn'd admire,
Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire!"
XXIII.
He said, and turn'd away; nor did the sage
O'erhear, in silent orisons employ'd.
The youth, his rising sorrow to assuage,
Home as he hied, the evening scene enjoy'd:
For now no cloud obscures the starry void;
The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills;[2]
Nor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd,
A soothing murmur the lone region fills,
Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills.
XXIV.
But he from day to day more anxious grew,
The voice still seem'd to vibrate on his ear.
Nor durst he hope the hermit's tale untrue;
For man he seem'd to love, and Heaven to fear;
And none speaks false, where there is none to hear.
"Yet can man's gentle heart become so fell!
No more in vain conjecture let me wear
My hours away, but seek the hermit's cell;
'Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel."
XXV.
At early dawn the youth his journey took,
And many a mountain pass'd and valley wide,
Then reach'd the wild; where, in a flowery nook,
And seated on a mossy stone, he spied
An ancient man: his harp lay him beside.
A stag sprang from the pasture at his call,
And, kneeling, lick'd the wither'd hand that tied
A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall,
And hung his lofty neck with many a flow'ret small.
XXVI.
And now the hoary sage arose, and saw
The wanderer approaching: innocence
Smil'd on his glowing cheek, but modest awe
Depress'd his eye, that fear'd to give offence.
"Who art thou, courteous stranger? and from whence?
Why roam thy steps to this sequester'd dale?"
"A shepherd-boy," the youth replied, "far hence
My habitation; hear my artless tale;
Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail.
XXVII.
"Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms,
I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound;
And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms,
Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound:
(For in thy speech I recognize the sound).
You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost,
And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound,
Pondering on former days by guilt engross'd,
Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd.
XXVIII.
"But say, in courtly life can craft be learn'd,
Where knowledge opens, and exalts the soul?
Where Fortune lavishes her gifts unearn'd,
Can selfishness the liberal heart control?
Is glory there achiev'd by arts, as foul
As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan?
Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl;
Love is the godlike attribute of man.
O teach a simple youth this mystery to scan!
XXIX.
"Or else the lamentable strain disclaim,
And give me back the calm, contented mind;
Which, late exulting, view'd in Nature's frame,
Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfin'd,
Grace, grandeur, and utility combin'd.
Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still
Well pleas'd with all, but most with humankind;
When Fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will,
Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uninform'd of ill."
XXX.
"Wouldst thou," the sage replied, "in peace return
To the gay dreams of fond romantic youth,
Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn,
From every gentle ear the dreadful truth:
For if my desultory strain with ruth
And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow,
Alas! what comfort could thy anguish soothe,
Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know.
Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe.
XXXI.
"But let untender thoughts afar be driven;
Nor venture to arraign the dread decree.
For know, to man, as candidate for heaven,
The voice of the Eternal said, Be free:
And this divine prerogative to thee
Does virtue, happiness, and heaven convey;
For virtue is the child of liberty,
And happiness of virtue; nor can they
Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray.
XXXII.
"Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief,
Which else might thy young virtue overpower;
And in thy converse I shall find relief;
When the dark shades of melancholy lower;
For solitude has many a dreary hour,
Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain:
Come often then; for, haply, in my bower,
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom thou may'st gain:
If I one soul improve, I have not liv'd in vain."
XXXIII.
And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze
The Muse of history unrolls her page.
But few, alas! the scenes her art displays,
To charm his fancy, or his heart engage.
Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage,
And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn:
Here smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage,
But lo, ere long, is left alone to mourn,
And languish in the dust, and clasp the abandon'd urn!
XXXIV.
"Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread,
Where ruin's gulf unfathom'd yawns beneath?
Shall life, shall liberty be lost," he said,
"For the vain toys that pomp and power bequeath?
The car of victory, the plume, the wreath,
Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave:
No note the clarion of renown can breathe,
To alarm the long night of the lonely grave,
Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming wave.
XXXV.
"Ah, what avails it to have trac'd the springs
That whirl of empire the stupendous wheel!
Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings,
Hands drench'd in blood, and breasts begirt with steel!
To those whom Nature taught to think and feel,
Heroes, alas! are things of small concern.
Could History man's secret heart reveal,
And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn,
Her transcripts to explore what bosom would not yearn!
XXXVI.
"This praise, O Cheronean sage,[3] is thine!
(Why should this praise to thee alone belong?)
All else from Nature's moral path decline,
Lur'd by the toys that captivate the throng;
To herd in cabinets and camps, among
Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride;
Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song,
How tyrant blood, o'er many a region wide,
Rolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide.
XXXVII.
"O who of man the story will unfold,
Ere victory and empire wrought annoy,
In that elysian age (misnam'd of gold),
The age of love, and innocence, and joy,
When all were great and free! man's sole employ
To deck the bosom of his parent earth;
Or toward his bower the murmuring stream decoy,
To aid the floweret's long-expected birth,
And lull the bed of peace, and crown the board of mirth.
XXXVIII.
"Sweet were your shades, O ye primeval groves!
Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent,
Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves,
His eyes still smiling, and his heart content.
Then, hand in hand, health, sport, and labour went.
Nature supply'd the wish she taught to crave.
None prowl'd for prey, none watch'd to circumvent.
To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave:
No vassal fear'd his lord, no tyrant fear'd his slave.
XXXIX.
"But ah! th' historic Muse has never dar'd
To pierce those hallow'd bowers: 'tis Fancy's beam
Pour'd on the vision of th' enraptur'd bard,
That paints the charms of that delicious theme.
Then hail sweet Fancy's ray! and hail the dream
That weans the weary soul from guilt and woe!
Careless what others of my choice may deem,
I long, where Love and Fancy lead, to go
And meditate on Heaven; enough of Earth I know."
XL.
"I cannot blame thy choice," the sage replied,
"For soft and smooth are Fancy's flowery ways.
And yet, even there, if left without a guide,
The young adventurer unsafely plays.
Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays
In modest truth no light nor beauty find.
And who, my child, would trust the meteor-blaze,
That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind,
More dark and helpless far, than if it ne'er had shin'd?
XLI.
"Fancy enervates, while it soothes, the heart,
And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight:
To joy each heightening charm it can impart,
But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night.
And often, where no real ills affright,
Its visionary fiends, an endless train,
Assail with equal or superior might,
And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain,
And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain.
XLII.
"And yet, alas! the real ills of life
Claim the full vigour of a mind prepar'd,
Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife,
Its guide experience, and truth its guard.
We fare on Earth as other men have far'd.
Were they successful? Let not us despair.
Was disappointment oft their sole reward?
Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare
How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear.
XLIII.
"What charms th' historic Muse adorn, from spoils,
And blood, and tyrants, when she wings her flight,
To hail the patriot prince, whose pious toils,
Sacred to science, liberty, and right,
And peace, through every age divinely bright
Shall shine the boast and wonder of mankind!
Sees yonder Sun, from his meridian height,
A lovelier scene, than virtue thus enshrin'd
In power, and man with man for mutual aid combin'd?
XLIV.
"Hail sacred Polity, by Freedom rear'd!
Hail sacred Freedom, when by law restrain'd!
Without you what were man? A grovelling herd,
In darkness, wretchedness, and want enchain'd.
Sublim'd by you, the Greek and Roman reign'd
In arts unrivall'd: O, to latest days,
In Albion may your influence unprofan'd
To godlike worth the generous bosom raise,
And prompt the sage's lore, and fire the poet's lays!
XLV.
"But how let other themes our care engage.
For lo, with modest yet majestic grace,
To curb Imagination's lawless rage,
And from within the cherish'd heart to brace,
Philosophy appears. The gloomy race
By Indolence and moping Fancy bred,
Fear, Discontent, Solicitude, give place,
And Hope and Courage brighten in their stead,
While on the kindling soul her vital beams are shed.
XLVI.
"Then waken from long lethargy to life[4]
The seeds of happiness, and powers of thought;
Then jarring appetites forego their strife,
A strife by ignorance to madness wrought.
Pleasure by savage man is dearly bought
With fell revenge, lust that defies control,
With gluttony and death. The mind untaught
Is a dark waste where fiends and tempests howl:
As Phoebus to the world, is science to the soul.
XLVII.
"And reason now through number, time, and space,
Darts the keen lustre of her serious eye,
And learns from facts compar'd, the laws to trace,
Whose long progression leads to Deity.
Can mortal strength presume to soar so high!
Can mortal sight, so oft bedimm'd with tears,
Such glory bear!--for lo, the shadows fly
From Nature's face; confusion disappears,
And order charms the eye, and harmony the ears.
XLVIII.
"In the deep windings of the grove, no more
The hag obscene and grisly phantom dwell;
Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar
Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell;
No wizard mutters the tremendous spell,
Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon;
Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell,
To ease of fancied pangs the labouring Moon,
Or chase the shade that blots the blazing orb of noon.
XLIX.
"Many a long-lingering year, in lonely isle,
Stunn'd with th' eternal turbulence of waves,
Lo, with dim eyes, that never learn'd to smile,
And trembling hands, the famish'd native craves
Of Heaven his wretched fare: shivering in caves,
Or scorch'd on rocks, he pines from day to day;
But Science gives the word; and lo, he braves
The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray,
And to a happier land wafts merrily away!
L.
"And even where Nature loads the teeming plain
With the full pomp of vegetable store,
Her bounty unimprov'd, is deadly bane.
Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore,
Stretch their enormous gloom; which to explore
Even Fancy trembles, in her sprightliest mood;
For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore,
Nestless each murderous and each monstrous brood,
Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from every flood.
LI.
"Twas from Philosophy man learn'd to tame
The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed.
Lo, from the echoing axe, and thundering flame,
Poison and plague and yelling rage are fled!
The waters, bursting from their slimy bed,
Bring health and melody to every vale:
And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head,
Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale,
To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale.
LII.
What dire necessities on every hand
Our art, our strength, our fortitude require!
Of foes intestine what a numerous band
Against this little throb of life conspire!
Yet Science can elude their fatal ire
Awhile, and turn aside Death's levell'd dart,
Soothe the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire,
And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart,
And yet a few soft nights and balmy days impart.
LIII.
"Nor less to regulate man's moral frame
Science exerts her all-composing sway.
Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants for fame,
Or pines, to indolence and spleen a prey,
Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they?
Flee to the shade of Academus' grove;
Where cares molest not, discord melts away
In harmony, and the pure passions prove
How sweet the words of Truth breath'd from the lips of Love.
LIV.
"What cannot Art and Industry perform,
When Science plans the progress of their toil!
They smile at penury, disease, and storm;
And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil.
When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil
A land, or when the rabble's headlong rage
Order transforms to anarchy and spoil,
Deep-vers'd in man the philosophic sage
Prepares with lenient hand their frenzy to assuage.
LV.
"'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind,
From situation, temper, soil, and clime
Explor'd, a nation's various powers can bind,
And various orders, in one form sublime
Of polity, that, midst the wrecks of time,
Secure shall lift its head on high, nor fear
Th' assault of foreign or domestic crime,
While public faith, and public love sincere,
And industry and law maintain their sway severe."
LVI.
Enraptur'd by the hermit's strain, the youth
Proceeds the path of Science to explore.
And now, expanded to the beams of truth,
New energies and charms unknown before
His mind discloses: Fancy now no more
Wantons on fickle pinion through the skies;
But, fix'd in aim, and conscious of her power,
Aloft from cause to cause exults to rise,
Creation's blended stores arranging as she flies.
LVII.
Nor love of novelty alone inspires,
Their laws and nice dependencies to scan;
For, mindful of the aids that life requires,
And of the services man owes to man,
He meditates new arts on Nature's plan;
The cold desponding breast of sloth to warm,
The flame of industry and genius fan,
And emulation's noble rage alarm,
And the long hours of toil and solitude to charm.
LVIII.
But she, who set on fire his infant heart,
And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shar'd
And bless'd, the Muse, and her celestial art,
Still claim th' enthusiast's fond and first regard.
From Nature's beauties variously compar'd
And variously combin'd, he learns to frame
Those forms of bright perfection,[5] which the bard,
While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame,
Enamour'd consecrates to never-dying fame.
LIX.
Of late, with cumbersome, tho' pompous show,
Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface,
Through ardour to adorn: but Nature now
To his experienc'd eye a modest grace
Presents, where ornament the second place
Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design
Subservient still. Simplicity apace
Tempers his rage; he owns her charm divine,
And clears th' ambiguous phrase, and lops th' unwieldy line.
LX.
Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains)
What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole,
When the great shepherd of the Mantuan plains[6]
His deep majestic melody 'gan roll:
Fain would I sing what transport storm'd his soul,
How the red current throbb'd his veins along,
When, like Pelides, bold beyond control,
Without art graceful, without effort strong,
Homer rais'd high to Heaven the loud, th' impetuous song.
LXI.
And how his lyre, though rude her first essays,
Now skill'd to soothe, to triumph, to complain,
Warbling at will through each harmonious maze,
Was taught to modulate the artful strain,
I fain would sing:--but ah! I strive in vain.
Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound.
With trembling step, to join yon weeping train,
I haste, where gleams funereal glare around,
And, mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound.
LXII.
Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn,
The soft amusement of the vacant mind!
He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn,
He, whom each virtue fir'd, each grace refin'd,
Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind!
He sleeps in dust.[7] Ah, how shall I pursue
My theme! To heart-consuming grief resign'd,
Here on his recent grave I fix my view,
And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays, adieu!
LXIII.
Art thou, my Gregory, for ever fled!
And am I left to unavailing woe!
When fortune's storms assail this weary head,
Where cares long since have shed untimely snow!
Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go!
No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers:
Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow,
My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears.
'Tis meet that I should mourn; flow forth afresh, my tears.
[1] See Plato's Timeus.
[2] How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
_Shakspeare._
[3] Plutarch.
[4] The influence of the philosophic spirit, in humanizing the mind, and
preparing it for intellectual exertion and delicate pleasure;--in
exploring, by the help of geometry, the system of the universe;--in
banishing superstition;--in promoting navigation, agriculture, medicine,
and moral and political science.
[5] General ideas of excellence, the immediate archetypes of sublime
imitation, both in painting and in poetry. See Aristotle's Poetics, and
the Discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
[6] Virgil.
[7] This excellent person died suddenly on the 10th of February, 1773.
The conclusion of the poem was written a few days after.
RETIREMENT.
When in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive youth of placid mien
Indulg'd this tender theme:
"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale:
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,
What time the wan moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep:
"To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Ne'er drew ambition's eye,
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest power,
Leans on her ivy'd shrine.
"How shall I woo thee, matchless fair!
Thy heavenly smile how win!
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care
And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favourite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing!
"Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclin'd
He fram'd his infant lays;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care
Nor cold Distrust alarm'd,
Nor Envy with malignant glare
His simple youth had harm'd.
"'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee
His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade.
Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!--
O take the wanderer home.
"Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream,
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.
"O while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy from the bank of flowers
The Zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sound invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car
Flash on the startled eye.
"But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;
For he of joys divine shall tell
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell
That chains this heart below.
"For me, no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread:
No more I climb those toilsome heights
By guileful Hope misled;
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain."
ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1758.
Still shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream?
Till at some stroke of Fate the vision flies,
And sad realities in prospect rise;
And, from Elysian slumbers rudely torn,
The startled soul awakes, to think, and mourn.
O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance,
Who flowery plains in endless pomp survey,
Glittering in beams of visionary day;
O yet, while Fate delays th' impending woe,
Be rous'd to thought, anticipate the blow;
Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill;
Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom,
Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb,
Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear,
And half pronounce Heaven's sacred doom severe.
Wise, beauteous, good! O every grace combin'd,
That charms the eye, or captivates the mind!
Fresh, as the floweret opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild, as the melodies at close of day,
That, heard remote, along the vale decay!
Yet, why with these compar'd? What tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness, can be match'd with thine?
Why roam abroad, since recollection true
Restores the lovely form to fancy's view?
Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile;
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,
Where meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where wisdom sits enthron'd serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien:
Still let me listen, while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameless heart,
Till all my soul, each tumult charm'd away,
Yields, gently led, to Virtue's easy sway.
By thee inspir'd, O Virtue, age is young,
And music warbles from the faltering tongue:
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes:
But when youth's living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistless on the view the glory streams;
Love, wonder, joy, alternately alarm,
And beauty dazzles with angelic charm.
Ah, whither fled! ye dear illusions stay!
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay.
How are the roses on that cheek decay'd,
Which late the purple light of youth display'd!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow'd;
With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd,
Fair was the blossom, soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope, we deem'd no tempest nigh:
When lo, a whirlwind's instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust.
Cold the soft hand, that sooth'd Woe's weary head!
And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed!
And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole,
Infusing balm, into the rankled soul!
O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower!
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven!
Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven!
But peace, bold thought! be still, my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart.
Escap'd the dungeon, does the slave complain,
Nor bless the friendly hand that broke the chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemn'd to roam forlorn?
Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw;
Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy deeps in storms perpetual toss'd,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost?
O happy stroke, that bursts the bonds of clay,
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar,
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.
Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew;
Nor check the sacred drops to pity due:
Lo, where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O'er her lov'd dust, the parent, brother, friend!
How vain the hope of man! but cease thy strain,
Nor sorrow's dread solemnity profane;
Mix'd with yon drooping mourners, on her bier
In silence shed the sympathetic tear.
ODE TO HOPE.
I. 1.
O Thou, who gladd'st the pensive soul,
More than Aurora's smile the swain forlorn,
Left all night long to mourn
Where desolation frowns, and tempests howl;
And shrieks of woe, as intermits the storm,
Far o'er the monstrous wilderness resound,
And 'cross the gloom darts many a shapeless form,
And many a fire-ey'd visage glares around;
O come, and be once more my guest!
Come, for thou oft thy suppliant's vow hast heard
And oft with smiles indulgent cheer'd
And sooth'd him into rest.
I. 2.
Smit by thy rapture-beaming eye
Deep flashing through the midnight of their mind,
The sable bands combin'd,
Where Fear's black banner bloats the troubled sky,
Appall'd retire. Suspicion hides her head,
Nor dares the obliquely gleaming eyeball raise:
Despair, with gorgon-figur'd veil o'erspread,
Speeds to dark Phlegethon's detested maze
Lo, startled at the heavenly ray,
With speed unwonted Indolence upsprings,
And, heaving, lifts her leaden wings,
And sullen glides away:
I. 3.
Ten thousand forms, by pining Fancy view'd,
Dissolve.--Above the sparkling flood
When Phoebus rears his awful brow,
From lengthening lawn and valley low
The troops of fen-born mists retire.
Along the plain
The joyous swain
Eyes the gay villages again,
And gold-illumin'd spire;
While on the billowy ether borne
Floats the loose lay's jovial measure;
And light along the fairy Pleasure,
Her green robes glittering to the morn,
Wantons on silken wing. And goblins all
To the damp dungeon shrink, or hoary hall,
Or westward, with impetuous flight,
Shoot to the desert realms of their congenial night.
II. 1.
When first on childhood's eager gaze
Life's varied landscape, stretch'd immense around,
Starts out of night profound,
Thy voice incites to tempt th' untrodden maze.
Fond he surveys thy mild maternal face,
His bashful eye still kindling as he views,
And, while thy lenient arm supports his pace,
With beating heart the upland path pursues:
The path that leads where, hung sublime,
And seen afar, youth's gallant trophies, bright
In Fancy's rainbow ray, invite
His wingy nerves to climb.
II. 2.
Pursue thy pleasurable way,
Safe in the guidance of thy heavenly guard,
While melting airs are heard,
And soft-ey'd cherub-forms around thee play:
Simplicity, in careless flowers array'd,
Prattling amusive in his accent meek;
And Modesty, half turning as afraid,
The smile just dimpling on his glowing cheek!
Content and Leisure, hand in hand
With Innocence and Peace, advance, and sing;
And Mirth, in many a mazy ring,
Frisks o'er the flowery land.
II. 3.
Frail man, how various is thy lot below!
To-day though gales propitious blow,
And Peace soft gliding down the sky,
Lead Love along, and Harmony,
To-morrow the gay scene deforms:
Then all around
The thunder's sound
Rolls rattling on through heaven's profound,
And down rush all the storms.
Ye days, that balmy influence shed,
When sweet childhood, ever sprightly,
In paths of pleasure sported lightly,
Whither, ah whither are ye fled?
Ye cherub train, that brought him on his way
O leave him not midst tumult and dismay;
For now youth's eminence he gains:
But what a weary length of lingering toil remains!
III. 1.
They shrink, they vanish into air.
Now Slander taints with pestilence the gale;
And mingling cries assail,
The wail of Woe, and groan of grim Despair.
Lo, wizard Envy from his serpent eye
Darts quick destruction in each baleful glance;
Pride smiling stern, and yellow Jealousy,
Frowning Disdain, and haggard Hate advance;
Behold, amidst the dire array,
Pale wither'd Care his giant-stature rears,
And lo, his iron hand prepares
To grasp its feeble prey.
III. 2.
Who now will guard bewilder'd youth
Safe from the fierce assault of hostile rage?
Such war can Virtue wage,
Virtue that bears the sacred shield of Truth?
Alas! full oft on Guilt's victorious car,
The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne;
While the fair captive, mark'd with many a scar,
In long obscurity, oppress'd, forlorn,
Resigns to tears her angel form.
Ill-fated youth, then whither wilt thou fly?
No friend, no shelter now is nigh,
And onward rolls the storm
III. 3.
But whence the sudden beam that shoots along?
Why shrink aghast the hostile throng?
Lo, from amidst affliction's night
Hope bursts all radiant on the sight:
Her words the troubled bosom soothe.
"Why thus dismay'd?
Though foes invade,
Hope ne'er is wanting to their aid,
Who tread the path of truth.
'Tis I, who smooth the rugged way,
I, who close the eyes of Sorrow,
And with glad visions of to-morrow
Repair the weary soul's decay.
When Death's cold touch thrills to the freezing heart,
Dreams of heaven's opening glories I impart,
Till the freed spirit springs on high
In rapture too severe for weak mortality."
ODE ON LORD HAY'S BIRTH-DAY.
A Muse, unskill'd in venal praise,
Unstain'd with flattery's art;
Who loves simplicity of lays
Breath'd ardent from the heart;
While gratitude and joy inspire,
Resumes the long-unpractis'd lyre,
To hail, O HAY, thy natal morn:
No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves,
But twines with oak the laurel leaves,
Thy cradle to adorn.
For not on beds of gaudy flowers
Thine ancestors reclin'd,
Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours
All energy of mind.
To hurl the dart, to ride the car,
To stem the deluges of war,
And snatch from fate a sinking land;
Trample th' invaders' lofty crest,
And from his grasp the dagger wrest,
And desolating brand:
'Twas this that rais'd th' illustrious line
To match the first in fame!
A thousand years have seen it shine
With unabated flame;
Have seen thy mighty sires appear
Foremost in glory's high career,
The pride and pattern of the brave:
Yet pure from lust of blood their fire,
And from ambition's wild desire,
They triumph'd but to save.
The Muse with joy attends their way
The vale of peace along;
There to its lord the village gay
Renews the grateful song.
Yon castle's glittering towers contain
No pit of woe, nor clanking chain,
Nor to the suppliant's wail resound;
The open doors the needy bless,
Th' unfriended hail their calm recess,
And gladness smiles around.
There to the sympathetic heart
Life's best delights belong,
To mitigate the mourner's smart,
To guard the weak from wrong.
Ye sons of luxury, be wise:
Know, happiness for ever flies
The cold and solitary breast;
Then let the social instinct glow,
And learn to feel another's woe,
And in his joy be blest.
O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare
For unsuspecting youth;
Ere Flattery her song prepare
To check the voice of Truth;
O may his country's guardian power
Attend the slumbering infant's bower,
And bright, inspiring dreams impart;
To rouse th' hereditary fire,
To kindle each sublime desire,
Exalt, and warm the heart.
Swift to reward a parent's fears,
A parent's hopes to crown,
Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,
That rear him to renown;
When in his finish'd form and face
Admiring multitudes shall trace
Each patrimonial charm combin'd,
The courteous yet majestic mien,
The liberal smile, the look serene,
The great and gentle mind.
Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes,
And win a nation's love,
Let not thy towering mind despise
The village and the grove.
No slander there shall wound thy fame,
No ruffian take his deadly aim,
No rival weave the secret snare:
For Innocence with angel smile,
Simplicity that knows no guile,
And Love and Peace are there.
When winds the mountain oak assail,
And lay its glories waste,
Content may slumber in the vale,
Unconscious of the blast.
Through scenes of tumult while we roam,
The heart, alas! is ne'er at home,
It hopes in time to roam no more;
The mariner, not vainly brave,
Combats the storm, and rides the wave,
To rest at last on shore.
Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,
How vain your mask of state!
The good alone have joy sincere,
The good alone are great:
Great, when, amid the vale of peace,
They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,
And hear the voice of artless praise;
As when along the trophy'd plain
Sublime they lead the victor train,
While shouting nations gaze.
THE BATTLE OF THE PIGMIES AND CRANES.
FROM THE PYGMÆO-GERANO-MACHIA OF ADDISON.
The pigmy-people, and the feather'd train,
Mingling in mortal combat on the plain,
I sing. Ye Muses, favour my designs,
Lead on my squadrons, and arrange the lines;
The flashing swords and fluttering wings display,
And long bills nibbling in the bloody fray;
Cranes darting with disdain on tiny foes,
Conflicting birds and men, and war's unnumber'd woes.
The wars and woes of heroes six feet long
Have oft resounded in Pierian song.
Who has not heard of Colchos' golden fleece,
And Argo mann'd with all the flower of Greece?
Of Thebes' fell brethren, Theseus stern of face,
And Peleus' son, unrivall'd in the race;
Æneas, founder of the Roman line,
And William, glorious on the banks of Boyne?
Who has not learn'd to weep at Pompey's woes,
And over Blackmore's epic page to doze?
'Tis I, who dare attempt unusual strains,
Of hosts unsung, and unfrequented plains;
The small shrill trump, and chiefs of little size,
And armies rushing down the darken'd skies.
Where India reddens to the early dawn,
Winds a deep vale from vulgar eye withdrawn;
Bosom'd in groves the lowly region lies,
And rocky mountains round the border rise.
Here, till the doom of fate its fall decreed,
The empire flourish'd of the pigmy-breed;
Here Industry perform'd, and Genius plann'd,
And busy multitudes o'erspread the land.
But now to these lone bounds if pilgrim stray,
Tempting through craggy cliffs the desperate way,
He finds the puny mansion fallen to earth,
Its godlings mouldering on th' abandon'd hearth;
And starts, where small white bones are spread around,
"Or little footsteps lightly print the ground;"
While the proud crane her nest securely builds,
Chattering amid the desolated fields.
But different fates befell her hostile rage,
While reign'd, invincible through many an age,
The dreaded pigmy: rous'd by war's alarms,
Forth rush'd the madding manikin to arms.
Fierce to the field of death the hero flies;
The faint crane fluttering flaps the ground, and dies;
And by the victor borne (o'erwhelming load!)
With bloody bill loose-dangling marks the road.
And oft the wily dwarf in ambush lay,
And often made the callow young his prey;
With slaughter'd victims heap'd his board, and smil'd,
T' avenge the parent's trespass on the child.
Oft, where his feather'd foe had rear'd her nest,
And laid her eggs and household gods to rest,
Burning for blood, in terrible array,
The eighteen-inch militia burst their way;
All went to wreck; the infant foeman fell,
When scarce his chirping bill had broke the shell.
Loud uproar hence, and rage of arms arose,
And the fell rancour of encountering foes;
Hence dwarfs and cranes one general havoc whelms,
And Death's grim visage scares the pigmy-realms.
Not half so furious blaz'd the warlike fire
Of mice, high theme of the Meonian lyre;
When bold to battle march'd the accoutred frogs,
And the deep tumult thunder'd through the bogs.
Pierc'd by the javelin bulrush on the shore
Here agonizing roll'd the mouse in gore;
And there the frog, (a scene full sad to see!)
Shorn of one leg, slow sprawl'd along on three:
He vaults no more with vigorous hops on high,
But mourns in hoarsest croaks his destiny.
And now the day of woe drew on apace,
A day of woe to all the pigmy-race,
When dwarfs were doom'd (but penitence was vain)
To rue each broken egg, and chicken slain.
For, roused to vengeance by repeated wrong,
From distant climes the long-bill'd legions throng:
From Strymon's lake, Cayster's plashy meads,
And fens of Scythia, green with rustling reeds,
From where the Danube winds through many a land,
And Mareotis laves th' Egyptian strand,
To rendezvous they waft on eager wing,
And wait assembled the returning spring.
Meanwhile they trim their plumes for length of flight,
Whet their keen beaks and twisting claws for fight;
Each crane the pigmy power in thought o'erturns,
And every bosom for the battle burns.
When genial gales the frozen air unbind,
The screaming legions wheel, and mount the wind:
Far in the sky they form their long array,
And land and ocean stretch'd immense survey
Deep deep beneath: and, triumphing in pride,
With clouds and winds commix'd, innumerous ride;
'Tis wild obstreperous clangour all, and heaven
Whirls in tempestuous undulation driven.
Nor less th' alarm that shook the world below,
Where march'd in pomp of war th' embattled foe:
Where manikins with haughty step advance,
And grasp the shield, and couch the quivering lance:
To right and left the lengthening lines they form,
And rank'd in deep array await the storm.
High in the midst the chieftain-dwarf was seen,
Of giant stature, and imperial mien:
Full twenty inches tall he strode along,
And view'd with lofty eye the wondering throng:
And while with many a scar his visage frown'd,
Bared his broad bosom, rough with many a wound
Of beaks and claws, disclosing to their sight
The glorious meed of high heroic might:
For with insatiate vengeance, he pursued,
And never-ending hate, the feathery brood.
Unhappy they, confiding in the length
Of horny beak, or talon's crooked strength,
Who durst abide his rage; the blade descends,
And from the panting trunk the pinion rends:
Laid low in dust the pinion waves no more,
The trunk disfigur'd stiffens in its gore.
What hosts of heroes fell beneath his force!
What heaps of chicken carnage mark'd his course!
How oft, O Strymon, thy lone banks along,
Did wailing Echo waft the funeral song!
And now from far the mingling clamours rise,
Loud and more loud rebounding through the skies.
From skirt to skirt of heaven, with stormy sway,
A cloud rolls on, and darkens all the day.
Near and more near descends the dreadful shade;
And now in battalions array display'd,
On sounding wings, and screaming in their ire,
The cranes rush onward, and the fight require.
The pigmy warriors eye with fearless glare
The host thick swarming o'er the burden'd air:
Thick swarming now, but to their native land
Doom'd to return a scanty straggling band--
When sudden, darting down the depth of heaven,
Fierce on th' expecting foe the cranes are driven.
The kindling frenzy every bosom warms,
The region echoes to the crash of arms:
Loose feathers from th' encountering armies fly,
And in careering whirlwinds mount the sky.
To breathe from toil upsprings the panting crane,
Then with fresh vigour downward darts again.
Success in equal balance hovering hangs.
Here, on the sharp spear, mad with mortal pangs,
The bird transfix'd in bloody vortex whirls,
Yet fierce in death the threatening talon curls:
There, while the life-blood bubbles from his wound,
With little feet the pigmy beats the ground;
Deep from his breast the short, short sob he draws,
And dying curses the keen pointed claws.
Trembles the thundering field, thick cover'd o'er
With falchions, mangled wings, and streaming gore,
And pigmy arms, and beaks of ample size,
And here a claw, and there a finger lies.
Encompass'd round with heaps of slaughter'd foes,
All grim in blood the pigmy champion glows,
And on th' assailing host impetuous springs,
Careless of nibbling bills, and flapping wings;
And midst the tumult, wheresoe'er he turns,
The battle with redoubled fury burns.
From every side th' avenging cranes amain
Throng, to o'erwhelm this terror of the plain:
When suddenly (for such the will of Jove)
A fowl enormous, sousing from above,
The gallant chieftain clutch'd, and, soaring high,
(Sad chance of battle!) bore him up the sky.
The cranes pursue, and clustering in a ring,
Chatter triumphant round the captive king.
But ah! what pangs each pigmy bosom wrung,
When, now to cranes a prey, on talons hung,
High in the clouds they saw their helpless lord,
His wriggling form still lessening as he soar'd.
Lo! yet again, with unabated rage,
In mortal strife the mingling hosts engage.
The crane with darted bill assaults the foe,
Hovering; then wheels aloft to scape the blow:
The dwarf in anguish aims the vengeful wound;
But whirls in empty air the falchion round.
Such was the scene, when midst the loud alarms
Sublime th' eternal Thunderer rose in arms:
When Briareus, by mad ambition driven,
Heav'd Pelion huge, and hurl'd it high at heaven.
Jove roll'd redoubling thunders from on high,
Mountains and bolts encounter'd in the sky;
Till one stupendous ruin whelm'd the crew,
Their vast limbs weltering wide in brimstone blue.
But now at length the pigmy legions yield,
And wing'd with terror fly the fatal field.
They raise a weak and melancholy wail,
All in distraction scattering o'er the vale.
Prone on their routed rear the cranes descend;
Their bills bite furious, and their talons rend:
With unrelenting ire they urge the chase,
Sworn to exterminate the hated race.
'Twas thus the pigmy name, once great in war,
For spoils of conquer'd cranes renown'd afar,
Perish'd. For, by the dread decree of Heaven,
Short is the date to earthly grandeur given,
And vain are all attempts to roam beyond
Where fate has fix'd the everlasting bound.
Fall'n are the trophies of Assyrian power,
And Persia's proud dominion is no more;
Yea, though to both superior far in fame,
Thine empire, Latium, is an empty name.
And now with lofty chiefs of ancient time
The pigmy heroes roam'd th' Elysian clime.
Or, if belief to matron-tales be due,
Full oft, in the belated shepherd's view,
Their frisking forms, in gentle green array'd,
Gambol secure amid the moonlight glade.
Secure, for no alarming cranes molest,
And all their woes in long oblivion rest:
Down the deep dale, and narrow winding way,
They foot it featly, ranged in ringlets gay:
'Tis joy and frolic all, where'er they rove,
And Fairy-people is the name they love.
THE HARES.
A FABLE.
Yes, yes, I grant the sons of Earth
Are doom'd to trouble from their birth.
We all of sorrow have our share;
But say, is yours without compare?
Look round the world; perhaps you'll find
Each individual of our kind
Press'd with an equal load of ill,
Equal at least. Look further still,
And own your lamentable case
Is little short of happiness.
In yonder hut that stands alone
Attend to Famine's feeble moan;
Or view the couch where Sickness lies,
Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes,
His frame by strong convulsion torn,
His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn.
Or see, transfix'd with keener pangs,
Where o'er his hoard the miser hangs;
Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares,
Nor Slumber's balmy blessing shares;
Despair, Remorse, and Terror roll,
Their tempests on his harass'd soul.
But here perhaps it may avail
T' enforce our reasoning with a tale.
Mild was the morn, the sky serene,
The jolly hunting band convene,
The beagle's breast with ardour burns,
The bounding steed the champaign spurns,
And Fancy oft the game descries
Through the hound's nose, and huntsman's eyes.
Just then, a council of the hares
Had met, on national affairs.
The chiefs were set; while o'er their head
The furze its frizzled covering spread.
Long lists of grievances were heard,
And general discontent appear'd.
"Our harmless race shall every savage
Both quadruped and biped ravage?
Shall horses, hounds, and hunters still
Unite their wits to work us ill?
The youth, his parent's sole delight,
Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite,
Whose pulse in every vein beats strong,
Whose limbs leap light the vales along,
May yet ere noontide meet his death,
And lie dismember'd on the heath.
For youth, alas, nor cautious age,
Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage.
In every field we meet the foe,
Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe;
The morning but awakes our fears,
The evening sees us bath'd in tears.
But must we ever idly grieve,
Nor strive our fortunes to relieve?
Small is each individual's force:
To stratagem be our recourse;
And then, from all our tribes combin'd,
The murderer to his cost may find
No foes are weak, whom Justice arms,
Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms.
Be rous'd; or liberty acquire,
Or in the great attempt expire."
He said no more, for in his breast
Conflicting thoughts the voice suppress'd:
The fire of vengeance seem'd to stream
From his swoln eyeball's yellow gleam.
And now the tumults of the war,
Mingling confusedly from afar,
Swell in the wind. Now louder cries
Distinct of hounds and men arise.
Forth from the brake, with beating heart,
Th' assembled hares tumultuous start,
And, every straining nerve on wing,
Away precipitately spring.
The hunting band, a signal given,
Thick thundering o'er the plain are driven;
O'er cliff abrupt, and shrubby mound,
And river broad, impetuous bound:
Now plunge amid the forest shades,
Glance through the openings of the glades;
Now o'er the level valley sweep,
Now with short steps strain up the steep;
While backward from the hunter's eyes
The landscape like a torrent flies.
At last an ancient wood they gain'd,
By pruner's axe yet unprofan'd.
High o'er the rest, by Nature rear'd,
The oak's majestic boughs appear'd:
Beneath, a copse of various hue
In barbarous luxuriance grew.
No knife had curb'd the rambling sprays,
No hand had wove th' implicit maze.
The flowering thorn, self-taught to wind,
The hazel's stubborn stem entwin'd,
And bramble twigs were wreath'd around,
And rough furze crept along the ground.
Here sheltering, from the sons of murther,
The hares drag their tir'd limbs no further.
But lo, the western wind ere long
Was loud, and roar'd the woods among;
From rustling leaves, and crashing boughs
The sound of woe and war arose.
The hares distracted scour the grove,
As terror and amazement drove;
But danger, wheresoe'er they fled,
Still seem'd impending o'er their head.
Now crowded in a grotto's gloom,
All hope extinct, they wait their doom.
Dire was the silence, till, at length,
Even from despair deriving strength,
With bloody eye and furious look,
A daring youth arose and spoke.
"O wretched race, the scorn of Fate,
Whom ills of every sort await!
O, curs'd with keenest sense to feel
The sharpest sting of every ill!
Say ye, who, fraught with mighty scheme,
Of liberty and vengeance dream,
What now remains? To what recess
Shall we our weary steps address,
Since Fate is evermore pursuing
All ways and means to work our ruin?
Are we alone, of all beneath,
Condemn'd to misery worse than death?
Must we, with fruitless labour, strive
In misery worse than death to live?
No. Be the smaller ill our choice:
So dictates Nature's powerful voice.
Death's pang will in a moment cease;
And then, All hail, eternal peace!"
Thus while he spoke, his words impart
The dire resolve to every heart.
A distant lake in prospect lay,
That, glittering in the solar ray,
Gleam'd through the dusky trees, and shot
A trembling light along the grot.
Thither with one consent they bend,
Their sorrows with their lives to end,
While each, in thought, already hears
The water hissing in his ears.
Fast by the margin of the lake,
Conceal'd within a thorny brake,
A linnet sate, whose careless lay
Amus'd the solitary day.
Careless he sung, for on his breast
Sorrow no lasting trace impress'd;
When suddenly he heard a sound
Of swift feet traversing the ground.
Quick to the neighbouring tree he flies,
Thence trembling casts around his eyes;
No foe appear'd, his fears were vain;
Pleas'd he renews the sprightly strain.
The hares, whose noise had caus'd his fright,
Saw with surprise the linnet's flight.
"Is there on Earth a wretch," they said,
"Whom our approach can strike with dread?"
An instantaneous change of thought
To tumult every bosom wrought.
So fares the system-building sage,
Who, plodding on from youth to age,
At last on some foundation-dream
Has rear'd aloft his goodly scheme,
And prov'd his predecessors fools,
And bound all nature by his rules;
So fares he in that dreadful hour,
When injur'd Truth exerts her power,
Some new phenomenon to raise,
Which, bursting on his frighted gaze,
From its proud summit to the ground
Proves the whole edifice unsound.
"Children," thus spoke a hare sedate,
Who oft had known th' extremes of fate,
"In slight events the docile mind
May hints of good instruction find.
That our condition is the worst,
And we with such misfortunes curst
As all comparison defy,
Was late the universal cry;
When lo, an accident so slight
As yonder little linnet's flight
Has made your stubborn heart confess
(So your amazement bids me guess)
That all our load of woes and fears
Is but a part of what he bears.
Where can he rest secure from harms,
Whom even a helpless hare alarms?
Yet he repines not at his lot,
When past, the danger is forgot:
On yonder bough he trims his wings,
And with unusual rapture sings:
While we, less wretched, sink beneath
Our lighter ills, and rush to death.
No more of this unmeaning rage,
But hear, my friends, the words of age.
"When by the winds of autumn driven
The scatter'd clouds fly cross the heaven,
Oft have we, from some mountain's head,
Beheld th' alternate light and shade
Sweep the long vale. Here, hovering, lowers
The shadowy cloud; there downward pours,
Streaming direct, a flood of day,
Which from the view flies swift away;
It flies, while other shades advance,
And other streaks of sunshine glance.
Thus chequer'd is the life below
With gleams of joy and clouds of woe.
Then hope not, while we journey on,
Still to be basking in the sun:
Nor fear, though now in shades ye mourn,
That sunshine will no more return.
If, by your terrors overcome,
Ye fly before th' approaching gloom,
The rapid clouds your flight pursue,
And darkness still o'ercasts your view.
Who longs to reach the radiant plain
Must onward urge his course amain;
For doubly swift the shadow flies,
When 'gainst the gale the pilgrim plies.
At least be firm, and undismay'd
Maintain your ground; the fleeting shade
Ere long spontaneous glides away,
And gives you back th' enlivening ray.
Lo, while I speak, our danger past!
No more the shrill horn's angry blast
Howls in our ear; the savage roar
Of war and murder is no more.
Then snatch the moment fate allows,
Nor think of past or future woes."
He spoke; and hope revives; the lake
That instant one and all forsake,
In sweet amusement to employ
The present sprightly hour of joy.
Now from the western mountain's brow,
Compass'd with clouds of various glow,
The sun a broader orb displays,
And shoots aslope his ruddy rays.
The lawn assumes a fresher green,
And dewdrops spangle all the scene;
The balmy zephyr breathes along,
The shepherd sings his tender song,
W
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