Original sonnets on various subjects; and odes paraphrased from Horace Part 8

SONNET LXIV.

TO MR. HENRY CARY, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS SONNETS.

Prais'd be the Poet, who the Sonnet's claim, Severest of the orders that belong Distinct and separate to the Delphic Song, Shall venerate, nor its appropriate name Lawless a.s.sume. Peculiar is its frame, From him deriv'd, who shunn'd the City Throng, And warbled sweet thy rocks and streams among, Lonely Valclusa!--and that Heir of Fame, Our greater MILTON, hath, by many a lay Form'd on that arduous model, fully shown That English Verse may happily display Those strict energic measures, which alone Deserve the name of SONNET, and convey A grandeur, grace and spirit, all their own.

SONNET LXV.

TO THE SAME.

Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain To thy young eyes and kindling fancy, gleam With somewhat of the vivid hues, that stream From Poesy's bright orb, each envious stain Shed by dull Critics, venal, vex'd and vain, Seems recompens'd at full;--and so wou'd seem Did not _maturer_ Sons of Phbus deem My verse Aonian.--Thou, in time, shalt gain, Like them, amid the letter'd World, _that_ sway Which makes encomium _fame_;--so thou adorn, Extend, refine and dignify thy lay, And Indolence, and Syren Pleasure scorn; Then, at high noon, thy Genius shall display The splendors promis'd in its s.h.i.+ning morn.

SONNET LXVI.

n.o.bly to scorn thy gilded veil to wear, Soft Simulation!--wisely to abstain From fostering Envy's asps;--to dash the bane Far from our hearts, which Hate, with frown severe, Extends for those who wrong us;--to revere With soul, or grateful, or resign'd, the train Of mercies, and of trials, is to gain A quiet Conscience, best of blessings here!-- Calm Conscience is a land-encircled bay, On whose smooth surface Tempests never blow; Which shall the reflex of our life display Unstain'd by crime, tho' gloom'd with transient woe; While the bright hopes of Heaven's eternal day Upon the fair and silent waters glow.

SONNET LXVII.

ON DOCTOR JOHNSON'S UNJUST CRITICISMS IN HIS LIVES OF THE POETS[1].

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear, Fancy, or judgment?--no! his splendid strain, In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea.--The pain Which writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clear _Whence_ all his spleen to GENIUS.--Ill to bear A Friend's renown, that to his _own_ must reign, Compar'd, a Meteor's evanescent train, To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer, Subtle and fatal to poetic Sense, Did from insidious ENVY meanly flow, Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence, And Sophist-Wit, that labor to o'er-throw Th' awards of AGES, and new laws dispense That lift the _mean_, and lay the MIGHTY low.

1: When Johnson's Idolaters are hard pressed concerning his injustice in those _fallacious_ though _able_ pages;--when they are reminded that he there tells us the perusal of Milton's Paradise Lost is a _task_, and never a _pleasure_;--reminded also of his avowed contempt of that exquisite Poem, the LYCIDAS;--of his declaration that Dryden's absurd Ode on the death of Mrs. Anne Killegrew, written in Cowley's _worst_ manner, is the _n.o.blest_ Ode in this Language;--of his disdain of GRAY as a _lyric_ Poet; of the superior respect he pays to _Yalden_, _Blackmore_, and _Pomfret_;--When these things are urged, his Adorers seek to acquit him of _wilful_ misrepresentation by alledging that he wanted ear for lyric numbers, and taste for the _higher_ graces of POETRY:--but it is impossible so to believe, when we recollect that even his _prose_ abounds with poetic efflorescence, metaphoric conception, and harmonious cadence, which in the highest degree adorn it, without diminis.h.i.+ng its strength. We must look for the source of his injustice in the envy of his temper. When Garrick was named a Candidate for admission into the Literary Club, Dr.

Johnson told Mr. Thrale he would black-ball him. "_Who_, Sir? Mr.

Garrick! Companion of your Youth! your acknowledged Friend!" "Why, Sir, I love my little David better than any, or all of his Flatterers love him; but surely we ought to sit in a Society like ours, 'unelbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or PLAYER." See Supplement to Dr.

Johnson's Letters, published by Mrs. Piozzi. The blended hypocrisy and malice of this sally show the man. Johnson knew, at times, how to coax without sincerity as well as to abuse without justice. His seeming fondness for Mrs. C---- of Lichfield, on his visits to that City, and the contempt with which he spoke of her to her Townspeople, was another instance of the same nature.

SONNET LXVIII.

ON THE POSTHUMOUS FAME OF DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow JOHNSON's high claims!--yet boasting that his fires Were of _unclouded_ l.u.s.tre, TRUTH retires Blus.h.i.+ng, and JUSTICE knits her solemn brow; The eyes of GRAt.i.tUDE withdraw the glow His moral strain inspir'd.--Their zeal requires That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres, Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand, Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore, That JUSTICE, TRUTH, and GRAt.i.tUDE demand Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.-- A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run, But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.

SONNET LXIX.

TO A YOUNG LADY, PURPOSING TO MARRY A MAN OF IMMORAL CHARACTER IN THE HOPE OF HIS REFORMATION.

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice.

Misleading thought! has he not paid the price, His taste for virtue?--Ah, the sensual stream Has flow'd too long.--What charms can so entice, What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise, That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?-- [1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore, The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go, And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below A channel dry, which he may safe pa.s.s o'er.-- Vain hope!--it flows--and flows--and yet will flow, Volume decreaseless, to the FINAL HOUR.

1:

"Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at ille Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis aevum." HORACE.

SONNET LXX.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION, WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!--Time always heals In youth, the wounds of Sorrow.--O! survey Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey To warring Winds, and to their furious peals Surging tumultuous!--yet, as in dismay, The settling Billows tremble.--Morning steals Grey on the rocks;--and soon, to pour the day From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils In all his pride of light.--Thus shall the glow Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe; Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please, Till from those eyes the wonted l.u.s.tres flow, Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

SONNET LXXI.

TO THE POPPY.

While Summer Roses all their glory yield To crown the Votary of Love and Joy, Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh, Thee, scarlet POPPY of the pathless field, Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to s.h.i.+eld Thy flaccid vest, that, as the gale blows high, Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.-- So stands in the long gra.s.s a love-craz'd Maid, Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind Her gairish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain; But brain-sick visions cheat her tortur'd mind, And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain, Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed, THOU FLIMSY, SHEWY, MELANCHOLY WEED.

SONNET LXXII.

WRITTEN IN THE RAINY SUMMER OF 1789.

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train, The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain; Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain, Thy drench'd and heavy rose.--Yet pledg'd and dear Fair Hope still holds the promise of the Year; Suspends her anchor on the silver horn Of the next wexing Orb, tho', JUNE, thy Day, Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn, And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway, Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing Hours Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

SONNET LXXIII.