The British poets of the nineteenth century, including the select works of Crabbe ... and others. Being a suppl. vol. to The poetical works of Byron, Scott and Moore

That pity only checks your growing spite To erring man, and prompts you still to write;

That your choice-works on humble stalls
are laid,

Or vainly grace the windows of the trade;
Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm
Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm:
Think of the common cause, wherein we go,
Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame,
Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our
fame;

And let us join our forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful crew.

I sing of NEws, and all those vapid sheets The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets;

Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly,

Damp from the press, to charm the reader's

eye:

For, soon as morning dawns with roseate hue,
The Herald of the morn arises too;
Post after Post succeeds, and, all day long,
Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng.
When evening comes, she comes with all
her train

Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again,
Like bats, appearing, when the sun goes
down,

From holes obscure and corners of the town.
Of all these triflers, all like these, I write;
Oh! like my subject could my song delight,
The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should
raise,

And all the Alley echo to his praise.
In shoals the hours their constant numbers
bring,

Like insects waking to th' advancing spring;
Which take their rise from grubs obscene
that lie

In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky:
Such are these base ephemeras, so born
To die before the next revolving morn.
Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lost
In the first visit of a winter's frost;
While these remain, a base but constant

breed,

Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires succeed;

Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly,
Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy;
But let the decent maid and sober clown
Pray for these idlers of the sinful town:
This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow,
Nor give to Woodfall, or the world below.

But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish
then,

What wond'rous labours of the press and pen!
Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,
Some only once;-( avarice of words!
When thousand starving minds such manna
seek,

To drop the precious food but once a week.
Endless it were to sing the powers of all,
Their names, their numbers; how they rise
and fall:

Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize,
Rush to the head, and poison where they
please:

Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,
They drop their maggots in the trifler's
brain :

That genial soil receives the fruitful store,
And there they grow and breed a thousand

more.

Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose

A cause and party, as the bard his muse; Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,

And through the town their dreams and
omens fly:

So the Sibylline leaves were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;
So idle dreams, the journals of the night,
Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle

Some champions for

Some sturdy patriots,

Some neutral powers,

wrong with right.— the rights that prop the crown, sworn to pull them down;

with secret forces fraught, Wishing for war, but willing to be bought: While some to every side and party go, Shift every friend, and join with every foe; Like sturdy rogues in privateers they strike This side and that, the foes of both alike; A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times, Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes.

Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,

No changing season makes their number less,
Nor Sunday shines a Sabbath on the press!
Then lo! the sainted Monitor is born,
Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn:
As artful sinners cloak the secret sin,
To veil with seeming grace the guile within;
So Moral Essays on his front appear,
But all is carnal business in the rear;
The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last,
And all the gleanings of the six days past. Some bold adventurers first prepare to try
With these retired, through half the Sab-The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky;

bath-day,

The London-lounger yawns his hours away:

Fickle and false, they veer with every gale;
As birds that migrate from a freezing shore,
In search of warmer climes, come skimming

o'er,

But soon the growing Summer's certain sun
Wins more and more, till all at last are won:

Election-zeal and friendship, since declined;
A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind;
The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;
Dall port and poachers vile! the serious ills
of life.

Here comes the neighbouring justice, pleased
to guide

His little club, and in the chair preside.
In private business his commands prevail,
On public themes his reasoning turns the
scale;

Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,
And, in or out, his party triumphs here.

Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops,

Brookes' and St. Alban's boasts not, but,
instead,
Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rod-
ney's Head:-
--
Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he
Who owns the little hut that makes him free;
Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile
Of mightier men, and never waste the while;
Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks
elate,

A little prop and pillar of the state.
Here he delights the weekly news to con,
And mingle comments as he blunders on;
To swallow all their varying authors teach,
To spell a title and confound a speech:
Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,
And claims his nation's licence to abuse;
Then joins the cry: That all the courtly race
Are venal candidates for power and place;
Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,
That his own vote will bring its wonted price.
These are the ills the teeming press supplies,
The pois'nous springs from learning's foun-
tain rise;
Not there the wise alone their entrance find,
Imparting useful light to mortals blind;
But, blind themselves, these erring guides
hold out

Alluring lights, to lead us far about;
Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets
her quill,

Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she
will;
Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,
And Folly aids them both, impatient to

believe.

Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye
trust;

So wise their counsel, their reports so just:
Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure,
Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure;
Merit they have to mightier works unknown,
A style, a manner, and a fate their own.
We, who for longer fame with labour strive,
Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive;
Studious we toil, with patient care refine,
Nor let our love protect one languid line.
Severe ourselves, at last our works appear,
When, ah! we find our readers more severe;
For after all our care and pains, how few
Acquire applause, or keep it if they do!-
Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate,
Praised through their day, and but that day
their date;

Their careless authors only strive to join As many words, as make an even line; As many lines, as fill a row complete; As many rows, as furnish up a sheet: From side to side, with ready types they run, The measure's ended, and the work is done; Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest! Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest. To you all readers turn, and they can look Breeds the Whig-farmer and the Tory-swain; | Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book;

Bat flits along from palaces to shops;
Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,
And spread their plagues and influenzas round;
The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant
plain,

Those, who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse,

Would think it hard to be denied their news; Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak, Here mingle tastes and one amusement seek; This, like the public inn, provides a treat, Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat;

And such this mental food, as we may call Something to all men and to some men all

Next, in what rare production shall we trace

Such various subjects in so small a space? As the first ship upon the waters bore Incongruous kinds who never met before; Or as some curious virtuoso joins,

In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins, Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses place To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race: So here, compress'd within a single sheet, Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet: "Tis this which makes all Europe's business known, Yet here a private man may place his own; And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he

May tell their honours that he sells rappee. Add next th' amusement which the motley page

Affords to either sex and every age:
Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire.-
Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire
(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),
Ere we can read the wonders that ensue:
Then eager every eye surveys the part,
That brings its favourite subject to the heart;
Grave politicians look for facts alone,
`And gravely add conjectures of their own:
The sprightly nymph, who never broke her

rest

For tottering crowns, or mighty lands oppress'd,

Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball: The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale For 'Money's wanted' and ‘Estates on Sale' While some with equal minds to all attend, Pleased with each part and grieved to find an end.

So charm the News; but we, who, far from town, Wait till the postman brings the packet down, Once in the week, a vacant day behold, And stay for tidings, till they're three days old:

That day arrives; no welcome post appears,
But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears;
We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,
To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;
Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast,
Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.

A master-passion is the love of news,
Not music so commands, nor so the Muse:
Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;
Feed the musician, and he's out of tune;
But the sick mind, of this disease possest,
Flies from all cure and sickens when at rest.

Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose These rival sheets of politics and prose. First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,

A mutual theft that never fear'd a law;
Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,
And read it once, you read it through them all:
For this their runners ramble day and night,
To drag cach lurking deed to open light;
For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,
Coin their fresh tales and live upon the lie:
Like bees for honey, forth for news they
spring,-

Industrious creatures!
Home to their several

ever on the wing; cells they bear the

store, Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.

No anxious virgin flies to fair Tweed-side; No injured husband mourns his faithless bride;

No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed; But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed.

Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair,

Where rival peers contend to please the fair; When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,

And beauty decks with all that beauty buys; Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,

Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels. To these a thousand idle themes succeed, Deeds of all kinds and comments to each deed. Here stocks, the state-barometers, we view, That rise or fall, by causes known to few; Promotion's ladder who goes up or down; Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town; What new-born heir has made his father blest;

What heir exults, his father now at rest; That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives, And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the work, and now the printer tries

His powers no more, but leans on his allies.

When lo! the advertising tribe succeed, Pay to be read, yet find but few will read :

And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills

Have patent powers to vanquish human ills: These, with their cures, a constant aid remain,

To bless the pale composer's fertile brain; Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil Requires some pause, some intervals from toil;

And they at least a certain ease obtain From Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing strain.

I too must aid, and pay to see my name
Hung in these dirty avenues to fame;
Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen,
And sung, could make those avenues more
clean;

Could stop one slander ere it found its way,
And gave to public scorn its helpless prey.
By the same aid the Stage invites her friends,
And kindly tells the banquet she intends;
Thither from real life the many run,
With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon;
Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to see
The mimic passion with their own agree;
To steal a few enchanted hours away
From care, and drop the curtain on the day.
But who can steal from self that wretched
wight,

Whose darling work is tried, some fatal night?

Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,

He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss; Then groans succeed: not traitors on the wheel

Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel. Nor end they here: next day he reads his fall In every paper; crities are they all;

He sees his branded name, with wild affright, And hears again the cat-calls of the night.

Such help the STAGE affords: a larger space Is fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race. Physic had once alone the lofty style, The well-known boast, that ceased to raise a smile:

Now all the province of that tribe invade, And we abound in quacks of every trade.

The simple barber, once an honest name, Cervantes founded, Fielding raised his fame : Barber no more-a gay perfumer comes, On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;

Here he appears, each simple mind to move, And advertises beauty, grace, and love: Come, faded belles, who would your youth

renew,

And learn the wonders of Olympian dew; Restore the roses that begin to faint, Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint;

Your former features, airs, and arts assume, Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom. Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are turn'd to gray,

And crop Discretion's lying badge away; Read where they vend these smart engaging things,

These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;
No female eye the fair deception sees,
Not Nature's self so natural as these.-
Such are their arts, but not confined to them,
The Muse impartial must her sons condemn :
For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,
And puff a lazy Pegasus along:
More guilty these, by Nature less design'd
For little arts that suit the vulgar-kind;-
That barbers' boys, who would to trade
advance,

Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from
France;

That he who builds a chop-house, on his

door

Paints The true old original Blue Boar!
These are the arts by which a thousand live,
Where Truth may smile and Justice may
forgive:

But when, amid this rabble-rout, we find
A puffing poet to his honour blind;
Who silly drops quotations all about,
Packet or Post, and points their merit out;
Who advertises what reviewers say,
With sham editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,
But hurries into fame with all his might;
Although the verse some transient praise
obtains,

Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.

Now puffs exhausted, advertisements past, Their correspondents stand exposed at last; These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,

Who for the public good forego their own; Who volunteers in paper-war engage, With double portion of their party's rage: Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear Wooing the printer for admission here; Whose generous souls can condescend to pray

For leave to throw their precious time away.

Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a patriot

draws His gray-goose-quill in his dear country's

cause,

To vex and maul a ministerial race,
Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?
Alas! thou knowst not with what anxious
heart

He longs his best-loved labours to impart ;
How he has sent them to thy brethren round,
And still the same unkind reception found:
At length indignant will he damn the state,
Turn to his trade and leave us to our fate.

These Roman souls, like Rome's great | You take a name; Philander's odes are seen,

Printed, and praised, in every magazine:
Diarian sages greet their brother sage,
And your dark pages please th' enlighten'd
age.-

Alas! what years you thus consume in vain,
Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain!

Go! to your desks and counters all return; Your Sonnets scatter, your Acrostics burn; Trade, and be rich; or, should your careful sires

Bequeath you wealth, indulge the nobler fires: Should love of fame your youthful heart betray, Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way, Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray.

Of all the good that mortal men pursue, The Muse has least to give, and gives to few ; Like some coquettish fair she leads us on, With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone;

Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair Forget how constant one and one how fair: Meanwhile, Ambition, like a blooming bride, Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side;

And though she smiles not with such flattering charms, The brave will sooner win her to their arms.

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Livres

The British poets of the nineteenth century, including the select works of ...