Modern Parnassus; or, The New Art of Poetry/Part 2
ARGUMENT.
Genius not essential for the modern Poet—Versification and Rhyme—Varied Measures—No Measure—Effects of versified Novels—Speed in Writing—Profit attending it.
VARIOUS the claims, which modern times admit,
To poet's fame, besides the claim of wit.
What though wild Fancy droop her sportive wings,
Nor bless th' invoking Minstrel while he sings;
What though the words, adorn'd with lavish art,
Still want the secret spell, which rules the heart,
The breathing spirit want, th' informing soul,
Which lives, and moves, and kindles through the whole:
Yet 'tis some praise, in cadence meet to join,
The measur'd clauses of the well pois'd line[1].
Sure, music dwells within the soul, that fears
To wound, with rugged phrase, melodious ears;
Nor in rough dialects, of northern clime,
Leaves through the lay one harsh, or ill match'd rhyme.
Oft, fond of change, the lines with fitful chase,
As in brisk dance, their varying figures trace.
Now in gay Lyrics trip, and now more slow,
Linger in steps of Elegiac woe.
Now in Heroics sweep with grand array,
And now in rapid Dactyls speed away[2].
To poet's fame, besides the claim of wit.
What though wild Fancy droop her sportive wings,
Nor bless th' invoking Minstrel while he sings;
What though the words, adorn'd with lavish art,
Still want the secret spell, which rules the heart,
The breathing spirit want, th' informing soul,
Which lives, and moves, and kindles through the whole:
Yet 'tis some praise, in cadence meet to join,
The measur'd clauses of the well pois'd line[1].
Sure, music dwells within the soul, that fears
To wound, with rugged phrase, melodious ears;
Nor in rough dialects, of northern clime,
Leaves through the lay one harsh, or ill match'd rhyme.
Oft, fond of change, the lines with fitful chase,
As in brisk dance, their varying figures trace.
Now in gay Lyrics trip, and now more slow,
Linger in steps of Elegiac woe.
Now in Heroics sweep with grand array,
And now in rapid Dactyls speed away[2].
Hail too advent'rous Bard, whose freeborn soul
Bids the wild numbers rove without controul,
Whose verse nor rhyme, nor time, nor measure knows;
An untaught ear would deem it lofty prose;
And prose it were, unless, now short now long,
Th' unequal lines proclaim'd the pomp of song.[3]
But oh the joy each lab'ring bosom feels,
When some kind Bard a wondrous tale reveals,
Of lovely maidens and of sighing swains,
Of rival chieftains and ensanguin'd plains.
If with no vulgar flight thou mean to soar
To heights of glory none have reach'd before,
To ravish kingdoms with thy promis'd strain,
While Censure rails and Envy pines in vain;
This is the secret, this the art sublime,
Ye Minstrels hear me—novels penn'd in rhyme[4].
Who, midst a hero's dying groans, inquires
If Art adorns the lay, or Wit inspires?
What heart, o'erpow'r'd with weeping Beauty's woe,
Can coldly question how the numbers flow?
In soft repose, th' unconscious Judgment sleeps,
While Wonder gazes, or while Pity weeps.
E'en those, whose rough and barb'rous natures long
Despis'd the Muse, and spurn'd her sweetest song,
Whose savage mood not Shakspear's self could tame;
Now sooth'd to softness, own their former shame.
Won by the tale, they join the list'ning train,
Honour the minstrel and applaud the strain.
Bids the wild numbers rove without controul,
Whose verse nor rhyme, nor time, nor measure knows;
An untaught ear would deem it lofty prose;
And prose it were, unless, now short now long,
Th' unequal lines proclaim'd the pomp of song.[3]
But oh the joy each lab'ring bosom feels,
When some kind Bard a wondrous tale reveals,
Of lovely maidens and of sighing swains,
Of rival chieftains and ensanguin'd plains.
If with no vulgar flight thou mean to soar
To heights of glory none have reach'd before,
To ravish kingdoms with thy promis'd strain,
While Censure rails and Envy pines in vain;
This is the secret, this the art sublime,
Ye Minstrels hear me—novels penn'd in rhyme[4].
Who, midst a hero's dying groans, inquires
If Art adorns the lay, or Wit inspires?
What heart, o'erpow'r'd with weeping Beauty's woe,
Can coldly question how the numbers flow?
In soft repose, th' unconscious Judgment sleeps,
While Wonder gazes, or while Pity weeps.
E'en those, whose rough and barb'rous natures long
Despis'd the Muse, and spurn'd her sweetest song,
Whose savage mood not Shakspear's self could tame;
Now sooth'd to softness, own their former shame.
Won by the tale, they join the list'ning train,
Honour the minstrel and applaud the strain.
The stripling 'prentice and the sempstress maid,
Who from their shops before had never stray'd,
Now steal unseen along the Muse's grove,
To catch her strains and hear of war and love.
For they can judge, if lovers rightly sigh,
If warriors bravely fight and nobly die.
They, too, through trains of thick adventure led,
By turns feel joy, and hope, and grief, and dread.
The scene once open'd, all the actors shown,
And each well scann'd until the hero's known;
The beating heart no more can find repose,
Till the plot ripen, and the action close.
With breathless haste, from scene to scene they fly,
Nor quit the hero till he wed or die.
Who from their shops before had never stray'd,
Now steal unseen along the Muse's grove,
To catch her strains and hear of war and love.
For they can judge, if lovers rightly sigh,
If warriors bravely fight and nobly die.
They, too, through trains of thick adventure led,
By turns feel joy, and hope, and grief, and dread.
The scene once open'd, all the actors shown,
And each well scann'd until the hero's known;
The beating heart no more can find repose,
Till the plot ripen, and the action close.
With breathless haste, from scene to scene they fly,
Nor quit the hero till he wed or die.
Speed on, ye striplings; speed, ye gentle maids;
No frowning Bard your eager course upbraids.
Though thousand wings assist your rapid flight,
You cannot read so fast as poets write.
Whate'er was sneer'd of old[5], 'tis wisely great,
A thousand lines to pen at one bold heat.
When thoughts, and style, and numbers are forgot,
Lost in the tumult of the thick'ning plot,
The cautious Muse, who lingers o'er the strain,
Consumes her wit, her toil, her time, in vain:
Loses the printer's fee, the nation's praise,
And grants but one, instead of twenty lays.
No frowning Bard your eager course upbraids.
Though thousand wings assist your rapid flight,
You cannot read so fast as poets write.
Whate'er was sneer'd of old[5], 'tis wisely great,
A thousand lines to pen at one bold heat.
When thoughts, and style, and numbers are forgot,
Lost in the tumult of the thick'ning plot,
The cautious Muse, who lingers o'er the strain,
Consumes her wit, her toil, her time, in vain:
Loses the printer's fee, the nation's praise,
And grants but one, instead of twenty lays.
In truth, the Muse's is a thriving trade;
Who, as the Bard, is half so richly paid?
When funds are rising fast, and scarce his gold,
His children grown, himself now waxing old;
It is not wise, a moment to decline,
The ample profits of the well paid line[6].
Each nice improvement, which his work delays,
Will cost him something both in cash and praise.
Who, as the Bard, is half so richly paid?
When funds are rising fast, and scarce his gold,
His children grown, himself now waxing old;
It is not wise, a moment to decline,
The ample profits of the well paid line[6].
Each nice improvement, which his work delays,
Will cost him something both in cash and praise.
- ↑ I have adduced a specimen of this kind of poetry, from Mr. Montgomery's Wanderer of Switzerland. The fifth edition of that work must afford great encouragement to all, whose chief or sole reliance is on versification.
Shep.
Wand.
Ws. Wife.
Wand.
Ws. Wife.
Man of suff'ring, such a tale
Would wring tears from marble eyes!Ha! my daughter's cheek grows pale!
Help!—Oh, help!—my daughter dies!
Calm thy transports, O, my wife!
Peace, for these sweet orphans' sake!Oh, my joy! my hope! my life!
Oh, my child! my child! awake!Page 47.
- ↑ The specimens are before every reader in the "Lay of the last Minstrel," "Curse of Kehama," &c. &c.
- ↑ Although Thalaba the Destroyer is pretty generally known, I shall produce an illustration of the above rule, taken at random from that singular work: premising, how ever, that we, of the modern school, may think ourselves happy, that we have been able to retain Mr. Southey on our side. It is notorious, that the opposite party, aware that his talents would give splendour to any style, which he adopted, have employed their warmest expostulations and severest censure, to shake his constancy, and seduce his affections from the muse of his choice.Not in the desert,
Son of Hodeirah,
Wert thou abandon'd!The coexistent fire,
That in the dens of darkness burnt for thee,
Burns yet, and yet shall burn.In the Domdaniel caverns,
Under the roots of the ocean,
Met the masters of the spell.
&c. &c. &c.Book ii. - ↑ All the most popular poems of the day.
- ↑ Crispinus minimo me provocat, accipe si vis,
Accipiam tabulas, detur nobis locus, hora,
Custodes, videamus uter plus scribere possit.
Hor. lib. i, sat, iv, 13. - ↑ The current price for lines, taken one with another, short and long, has been, I am told, half a crown each. The loss, therefore, must be very considerable, to a man of narrow fortune, if he suppress, for the space of a year only, a poem of half a dozen cantos, containing several thousand lines. It is glorious for the cause of literature, that there is no longer any room for such remarks as the following: Haud tamen invideas Vati, quem pulpita pascunt.
. . . . . . . . . Nunc utile multis,
Pallere, et vinum toto nescire Decembri.
Juv. sat. vii, 93.