Selected Poems (11 page)

Back to the sway they forfeited before,

His scribbling toils some recompense may meet,

And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat?
¹

Let Jeffries’ shade indulge the pious hope,

455

And greeting thus, present him with a rope:

‘Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind!

Skill’d to condemn as to traduce mankind,

This cord receive, for thee reserved with care,

To wield in judgment, and at length to wear.’

460

Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his life,

To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,

And guard it sacred in its future wars,

Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!

Can none remember that eventful day,
²

465

That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray,

When Little’s leadless pistol met his eye,

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by?
³

Oh, day disastrous! On her firm-set rock,

Dunedin’s castle felt a secret shock;

470

Dark roll’d the sympathetic waves of Forth,

Low groan’d the startled whirlwinds of the north;

Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear,

The other half pursued its calm career;
¹

Arthur’s steep summit nodded to its base,

475

The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.

The Tolbooth felt – for marble sometimes can,

On such occasions, feel as much as man –

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms,

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms:
²

480

Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn,

The sixteenth story, where himself was born,

His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,

And pale Edina shudder’d at the sound:

Strew’d were the streets around with milk-white reams,

485

Flow’d all the Canongate with inky streams;

This of his candour seem’d the sable dew,

That of his valour show’d the bloodless hue;

And all with justice deem’d the two combined

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.

490

But Caledonia’s goddess hover’d o’er

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore;

From either pistol snatch’d the vengeful lead,

And straight restored it to her favourite’s head;

That head, with greater than magnetic pow’r,

495

Caught it, as Danaë caught the golden show’r,

And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.

‘My son,’ she cried, ‘ne’er thirst for gore again,

Resign the pistol and resume the pen;

500

O’er politics and poesy preside,

Boast of thy country, and Britannia’s guide!

For long as Albion’s heedless sons submit,

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,

So long shall last thine unmolested reign,

505

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.

Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.

First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen

The travell’d thane, Athenian Aberdeen.
¹

510

Herbert shall wield Thor’s hammer,
²
and sometimes,

In gratitude, thou’lt praise his rugged rhymes,

Smug Sydney
³
too thy bitter page shall seek,

And classic Hallam,
⁴
much renown’d for Greek;

Scott may perchance his name and influence lend,

515

And paltry Pillans
⁵
shall traduce his friend;

While gay Thalia’s luckless votary, Lambe,
¹

Damn’d like the devil, devil-like will damn.

Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway!

Thy Holland’s banquets shall each toil repay;

520

While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes

To Holland’s hirelings and to learning’s foes.

Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review

Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue,

Beware lest blundering Brougham
²
destroy the sale,

525

Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail.’

Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist

Her son, and vanish’d in a Scottish mist.
³

Then prosper, Jeffrey! pertest of the train

Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain!

530

Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot,

In double portion swells thy glorious lot;

For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,

And showers their odours on thy candid sheets,

Whose hue and frarance to th work adhere –

535

This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.
⁴

Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour’d grown,

Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone;

And, too unjust to other Pictish men,

Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen!

540

Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot,

His hirelings mention’d, and himself forgot!
¹

Holland, with Henry Petty at his back,

The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.

Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House,

545

Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse!

Long, long beneath that hospitable roof

Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof.

See honest Hallam lay aside his fork,

Resume his pen review his Lordship’s work

550

And grateful for the dainties on his plate

Declare his landlord can at least translate!
²

Dunedin! view thy children with delight,

They write for food – and feed because they write:

And lest, when heated with the unusual grape,

555

Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,

And tinge with red the female reader’s cheek,

My lady skims the cream of each critique;

Breathes o’er the page her purity of soul,

Reforms each error, and refines the whole.
³

560

Now to the Drama turn – Oh! motley sight!

What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite!

Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,
⁴

And Dibdin’s nonsense yield complete content.

Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania’s o’er,

565

And full-grown actors are endured once more;

Yet what avail their vain attempts to please,

While British critics suffer scenes like these;

While Reynolds vents his ‘dammes!’ ‘poohs!’ and ‘zounds!’
¹

And common-place and common sense confounds?

570

While Kenney’s ‘World’ – ah! where is Kenney’s wit? –

Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit;

And Beaumont’s pilfer’d Caratach affords

A tragedy complete in all but words?
²

Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage,

575

The degradation of our vaunted stage!

Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?

Have we no living bard of merit? – none!

Awake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake!

Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!

580

Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen,

Let Comedy assume her throne again;

Abjure the mummery of the German schools;

Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;

Give, as thy last memorial to the age,

585

One classic drama, and reform the stage.

Gods! o’er those boards shall Folly rear her head,

Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread?

On those shall Farce display Buffoon’ry’s mask,

And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask?

590

Shall sapient managers new scenes produce

From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose?

While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot,

On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?

Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim

595

The rival candidates for Attic fame!

In grim array though Lewis’ spectres rise,