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Do not deface books by marks and writing. ^ __ ._ Cornell University Library PR 4729.G46T7 1855 1 iJje •ranscendentalists; a satire tor the 3 1924 013 475 920 The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013475920 SaSiSS THE TMNSCENDENTALISTS, >sfv ^ Satire fw fp ^, '.-■ .' 'iit'v TWO FYTTE8 OP SOJIfG. V THE REVEREND ARCHER GURMY, AUTHOR OF "king OHAELES THE FIKST." Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter I * * * * * * Attd the hoo& of the horses beat, beat, Tlie hoo& of the horses beat. Beat into my scalp and my brain. . . Maud. LONDON : THOMAS B0SW4>StH, 215, REGENT STE^ET, 1855. THE TRAJ^SOEroEJ^TALISTS. THE TRANSGENDENTALISTS. % Mm isx i\t %^t, TWO FYTTES OF SONG. ^r' THE REVEREND ARCHER ^URNEY, AUTHOR OF " KING CHARLES THE FIRST. r Clamoui and rumble, and ringing and clatter ! ***** And the hoofs of the horses heat, beat. The hoofs of the horses beat. Beat into my scalp and my brain. Maud. LONDON : THOMAS BOSWORTH, 215, REGENT STREET. 1855. A ^V^/ Kl%^nt LONDON: u. J. PALMER, SAVOY STftEET, STRAND. 1,1 V- PREFACE. This Satire, if I may so venture to call it, has been so far revised and augmented by the addition of several hundred lines, while some scores have been retrenched, that I may almost lay it as an entirely novel endeavour before „the tribunal of the Public. Certain personali- ties, which seemed to have little interest for the world at large, have given way to general affirmations, more capable, it is trusted, of awakening a reader's sympathy. If some should still remain, let the examples of the good and great, a Pope, a Dryden, even a Cowper, be remembered in extenuation of the satirist's daring:. " At, est truculentior, atque Plus sequo liber ? simplex fortisque habeatur, Caldiorest? acres inter numeretur. Opinor, Hsec res et jungit, junctos et servat amicos.'' THE TRAl^SCEroEI^TALISTS. FYTTE THE FIRST. It is time That old hysterical mock disease should die. ***** Nothing but idiot gabble ! Maud. FYTTE THE FIRST. PATAL Decadence ! life's worst disease, When crude exaggerations only please ; When, satiated with all that's fresh and fair, One sole prerogative remains — ^to stare ! Was ever Age self-idolised as ours. Arrayed in gaudiest aromatic flowers ? At Folly's altar critic-priests say mass, And poet-acolytes wave incense-gas. " Esthetic," " transcendental," " vague," " immense," In these vast seas lies drowned poor Common-sense ; Whelmed 'neath the monster-floods he pants for breath, Or, crushed by Krakens, welters into death. B 2 THE TEANSCENDENTAIdSTS. Behold the epoch of high mystic song ! Be but unnatural, and you'll scarce go wrong ; But one offence no thinker pardon could, To aim at being coarsely understood. Taste ! Sympathy ! — amazed, we call : Where are ye fled, if stiU ye are at all \ In some few rural nooks, some pastoral shades, And in the hearts of some sweet English maids, (Childhood and woman still will feel the true), There, at your last frail outposts, linger you. Meanwhile the Transcendental's crown'd for Queen, Sunlight is censured coarse, and nature mean, And nought is valued more in space or time Save vague iEsthetics and the false Sublime. Granted that genial spirits still survive To light the gloom and keep our hopes alive, — How many a soul doth affectation mar ! The love of things that seem, not things that are. Thee, Tennyson, despite thy genius real. Thee must we thank for this intense " Ideal ;" THE TKANSCENDENTALISTS. To thee we owe these tenebrific strains, This glut of nonsense, this sad lack of brains, This mystical parade, insane pretence. That never, never, deviates into sense. 'Tis true, thy Muse pure feeling's deeps has traced. With all the gifts of tenderness is graced. An undisputed tragic power possesses. And yet is rich in music and caresses, Owns every charm to poet could belong. Except the natural melody of song. But, ! thine imitators — 0, the crew That bray hoarse echoes, critic-laurell'd too ! Thy strains oracular bred these mens' ravings : And then the hapless hyperbolic cravings, Which all the sons of mediocrity, The criticlings, have haply stolen from thee. Ah, thou hast much to answer for, poor Bard ! But then, thy penance, that to bear were hard. Could soul conceive an agony more drear Than such rampagious parodies to hear, And know that through our most artistic strains Art tethered lies in Dulness' worst of chains 1 B 2 4 THE TKANSCENDENTALISTS. Alack, ill-satisfied with such renown. Thyself hast lept the murk abysses down, Hast proved thy own faint soul by humbug awed In the grim rubbish of a thing called " Maud." "We mourn thy crime, still more thy weakness rue, And groan, " The Laureate's transcendental too." But who may speak the numbers of the herd That claim the glories of the mocking-bird 1 To whom such bays by vast acclaim were given 1 Advance, great Bailey, storm-and-thunder-riven, And on illimitable pinions sweep ! Through the orbicular and mazed deep ! Wreathe all the stars around that forehead high ! Thy genius, vast Colossus, scales the sky, And takes possession of the universe. In rhymes — I swear, no Hume could fancy worse. Near thy imagination, all-aflame, Pindar or iEschylus must pass for tame. But one can equal thee, in power or pith, And that's ihepoet — " Alexander Smith !" Alexander ! Alexander ! Beyond thee can the false ideal go 1 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. Such agonies, sucli raptures, such outpourings, Such most magnificent aesthetic roarings ; Such cravings of young gentlemen suWime, To flood with Austral beams the vaults of Time, To make vague space splendiferous as suet, And, with a farthing candle, bent to do it ! Alexander, tame those bursts of song ! Yet all the worlds to such a Muse belong : How prune those wings, outsoaring emptiest wind, And leaving common sense in dust behind 1 No, Alexander, how while swarms applaud. And all but hail thee for a poet-god. How should'st thou heed my hortatory strain 1 Pipe on thy music, man, and pipe again ! Thou canst not pipe so shrilly, or so badly, But critic " bravos" shall applaud thee madly. Let crude exaggeration but inspire, Dulness shall stand and roast her at the fire. Beyond this orbit soar'd one vapoury brain Into the region of the clear Inane ? Impossible 1 — No boundary madness knows, And Sydney Yednys feels yet direr throes, Hugely audacious, mythically rash. The thundering emperor of balder-dash. 6 THE TBANSCENDENTALISTS. Aytoun, the brave, in fierce Spasmodic verse Labour'd, with scant success, to scribble worse. The lion, though he strive to chew the grass, Can never bray as loudly as the ass, And o'er " Firmihan's" most bewildering rigs Art's influence cower'd. We cried, " This can't be Bigg's." 1; But how souls train'd in tame Convention's school Should frenzied extacies like these befool ? Immeasurable rant and raving rhyme. How should the critics find these things subHme 1 'Tis that minds, trained mid vapours dense and dull, Have lost all measure for the Beautiful, And from their stupefaction, coldly quiet. Can only be awakened by a riot ! As folks, averse before to measures metrical. Wax, when poetic, woefully poetical. Ready to swallow, in their ardours new, All rhymes men ever writ, and rhymesters too ; So critics, who the true sublime condemn (Simplicity and strength are blanlcs to them). Anxious to prove their prosy souls romantic. Look for a frantic theme, and then go frantic. THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. 7 This seeming contradiction must remain Convention's rule — iced heart and fever'd brain ; Thus is Time's chariot dragged along the heather By Tameness and Insanity together. Lightly I rhyme ; but countless are the woes Which germinate from such redoubted foes : What but deformity can prove the end When bad fine writing and convention blend 1 But lives there, then, you'll ask, no critic true, Who yields to folly, as to worth, its due 1 Endowed with sympathy for aught that's great* Able and willing to appreciate. Yet prompt to blame the vicious and the vile 1 Who with the storm could frown, the sunshine smile 1 Nay, HeaVn forbid, that you should take me thus ! Such master-spirits, just, wise, generous. Still wave the wand of empirfi,^et us hope, — And here award the wreath, and there the rope. Owns not the Thunderer's self a valorous pen, Which judged a Maud with sage impartial ken 1 — And do not single souls for Nature yearn. Which would speak freely, should the rabble burn 1 — 8 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. Nay none the Critic's office more esteem, — His caJl, a keenly penetrating beam, Through mists which modest merit screen from sight To pour his cheering mild maturing light And blast pretenders in their pride of power, — Than I, who seem'd to mock in this rash hour. 'Tis that the vague Anonymous pretence Has levelled pompous ignorance and sense, Confounding riffraff with the mind's nobility. And yielding all a sham infallibility. But rests the land of bards denuded quite 1 Yields not a Monckton Milnes his temperate light. Who tells his Christmas tale with sad sweet grief, And paints the Orient, blossom, fruit, and leaf 1 Lives not a Trench, whose chaste and gracious Muse Entwined pure lilies, tinged with morning's dews 1 Thrilled not a Keble sublunary sphere "With chants which seraphim might stoop to hear 1 And pour'd not forth, in accents fresh and strong. An Isaac Williams his adoring song 1 Woke not an Arnold, son to worthiest sire. Legends of old romance with living fire, While classic moonlight, tender, chaste, serene. Clothed the fair landscape with a tenderer green ? THE TRAN8CENDBNTALISTS. if Naj, even a Kingsley, stern as Fate, or Death, Enchains our hearts to sweet EUzabeth, And, while he woos convention's drowsy curse, Observes the immemorial laws of verse. Or he, the Chartist bard, whose angry lay Seems like the ocean, tipped with cream-white spray. Rearing in billows mighty to devour. Even Ernest Jones blends sense and taste with power. Has not a Knowles revived our drama's prime ? Has not a Browning made each heart's pulse chime 1 Has not his peerless wife taught England's soul Leap to her Childrens' Cry with mild control 1 Has not a Mackay struck the chords with glee 1 And love we not the Hewitts' minstrelsy 1 And thou, whose song that happier time recalled, Dear Bandinel, ere taste and music palled, "Was not thy " Lufra" rich in tenderest lays 1 — Ay, but not these the Age delights to praise : Not these, nor theirs, nor wights of temperate mood ; Jays soar confess'd the minstrels of the wood : These and their like have brain, have eyes, have ears. Sing not to crack the skies nor rend the spheres, To cast a comet's splendouring brightness out Till murk night reels, and Chaos whirls about. 10 THE TRANSCBNDENTALISTS. These know some measure in their wildest dance, Nor flash the fires of Bedlam from their glance ; These, above all, some human boundary know. Nor pour a million quires of frenzied woe ; These, criticlings and simpletons to gull. Are never irremediably dull. Nor anxious with bombastic glare to shine. Spin all their wits in one crude glittering line. Thence scant the bays the feverish Age can grant To natural strains, that long the memory haunt. When Smith, when Bailey weaves the aspiring rhyme. It roars " Transcendant, Infinite, Sublime/' But for these wights, who Art's chief rules can spell. The highest praise is, " Really, readable !" But now, from haunts Parnassian wend the view ! You'll find, Convention sways our Senate too. Sways all society ! (Harsh words, I'll own. But 'tis an angry hour, and let me groan !) Still as traditional refinement spreads, Cold grow mens' hearts, and emptier wax their heads. In place of nature and originality Is rear'd a standard of polite finality, THE TRANSCBNDENTALISTS. 11 Beyond whose boundaries taste forbids to go On pain of being censured rude and low, Or else extreme and vulgarly emphatic ; All earnestness is voted un-Socratic. The ardent patriot haply earns a smile From his gay auditors, serene, the while Their country's falling and the poor are dying. Young statesmen yawn : to yawns there's no replying. Nought so plebeian as to show rough feeling : Conceal, until there's nothing for concealing. Reserve, until reserve has swallowed up The very source of life, and drain'd the cup ! smoothly polished scions of nobility, Must you still glory in your grand nihility ? Your florid insignificance of mood % 0, could I lash you iuto life, I would ! Let democratic battering-rams assail, Your cheeks will blench not, you've no hearts to quail ; You'll only lisp, " Plague take these tiresome fellows !" Alas ! that time should weaken while it mellows, And aristocracies, when most refined. Should revel in blank impotence of mind ! Think not I mock you with intent to harm ! No, would the verse could work a wizard charm, 12 THE TKANSCENDENTALISTS. Could rouse you from your artificial sleep, And bid you guard the Throne, and ride the deep. (Here, Muse, confess, Let War to action call. You prove your fathers' children after aU. Although in peace tame idlesse seem'd your choice. In your strife-ardours must the Muse rejoice.) In PoUtics and Art like scenes we view ; O'er all Convention spreads her leaden hue. And thence, when rash Excess presumes to dare, The world becomes enamoured of the Glare. And now — forgive the daring of my strain, — In Churches is Convention apt to reign 1 Thus did a keen observer counsel youth. Nor were his strictures wholly void of truth. " The Prayers be loudly read with much decorum ; " Stirring discourses folks don't want, they bore 'em ! " Reign, equable and orthodox ability, " While snugly pewed sleeps calm respectability ! " Would you succeed, then hoard this precept sage, " Rise not above the level of your age, THE TRANSCENDEKTALISTS. 13 « " Be dim and dull, as London's dense November, " And ne'er say aught that mortal could remember ! " Great are the mysteries of common-place, " Be sure, you'll please the Rector, and ' his Grace,' " And also gratify the Alderman : — " Now you who know devise a safer plan ! " One way indeed to earn the big world's praises, " Besides the droning forth of leaden phrases, " Remains, to mountebank it, pulpit-drumming, " Outcalvin Calvin, and Outcumming Gumming. " Convention or Excess, — there rests your choice !"- Such was the warning of that friendly voice ; But I have faith, my Country's Church, in thee. And feel thy bonds the law of liberty. Doubtless, a nobler spirit life hath woke And stirs Convention's legendary yoke ; And transcendental pulpit-rant no more Bids wondering myriads tremble at its roar. The time hath been when coldness reign'd supreme, Save where sectarian zeal woke flickering gleam ; When (as in Art), from chill Convention's cant More ardent spirits fled to worship Rant. 14 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. Now seems a happier flame through hearts to glide, And party-bounds less anxiously divide ; A myriad priests our Temple's altars guard With earnest wills for more than earth's reward. Bent rich and poor to gather round the shrine And buoy the souls of men to spheres divine. Oh, proud were I, who traced this murmuring strain, To rank the last, the lowest, of their train ! Nor ween we sigh for follies neological, That for some wilful Bunsen-dodge we call. To teach men Esoteric Christianity, Which great St. Paul had nomenclatured " vanity." No, no, we'U stand by that One Faith unchanging, Delivered from the first, not prone to ranging ; And waive, though modern clocks strange hours may strike, Rome and Geneva's novelties alike. We bid not pastors novel truths unfold. But barely urge them newly stamp the old ; For oldest verities claim youth their due When a free heart receives and proves them true. Yet this rests fact ; Convention far and wide Expands her empire, rolls her stagnant tide. THE TRANSCENDBNTALISTS. 15 Till Arts and State alike her power confess And modern life grows one bleak wilderness." Thus turn a moment to artistic sphere, You'll find the same conclusions meet you here. These are the rules and precepts that prevail, Each dilettant will mildly lisp the tale, " Expression's vulgar ; finished art and grace We faintly recognize. in commonplace." Thus with his leathern organ, dull and drony, May-Fair the bland delights in sad Gardoni ; No chequered light and shade to trouble fancy But just Convention's lifeless necromancy. That quiet charm and opiate spell possessing Which Fashion's jaded votaries count a blessing. Or hear the Turkish gentleman, whose C In Alt. awakes deUrious ecstasy, By even most rapturous friends proclaim'd " a stick," I mean, the well-intentioned Tamberlik. These, crowds admire ; these, fashion's swarms applaud. These all the wise men in the papers laud ; While — though I banter, such confession grieves. The " Connoisseurs " have only shrugs for " Reeves," Or, at the best, bestow, his worthiest done, Insulting patronage on Genius' son. 16 THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. Let fashion yawn, or sapient learning frown, These verses float to mute oblivion down, Yet gladly roll they now, whoe'er deride. To one whom Britain calls her son with pride. Why should not She, who guards our Albion's throne And sways her sceptre, British genius own 1 — • Surely, some calumny, some slander vile, Forged by Italian 'fraud, perchance, and guile. Has closed that Royal soul to Genius' claim ; For they, who cannot equal, may defame. For me, true Merit must inspire my lays : Would that some worthier trophy I could raise To powers that oft the inmost soul have stirr'd Until I sat entranced, and breath'd no word. In Reeves the rarest quahties combine ; Art's highest magic, and the glow divine Which kindles generous souls with nameless force. Which vulgar fashion reprobates as coarse, That mean and smaU refinement which would throw Convention's pall o'er all, above, below : — A voice, which ranging wide, possesses still A sympathetic quality to thrill ; Now charms you like the zephyr's softest tone, The nightingale's bewildering forest-moan. THE TRANSCBNDBNTALISTS. 17 Now like the storm-wind wakes to glorious strife, And kindles passion's billows into life : AU by that taste controlled, that instinct high, No study can achieve, no art can buy, Heav'n's gift at birth, which, fallipg from above, Attuned the artist's soul to light and love. Hear him as Edgar Ravenswood complain : This is no forced, no artificial strain ; Your soul lies 'whelm'd 'neath those deep seas of grief Until a sigh, or tears, must yield relief. Hear him of Nelson's death the burden sing, Where is the heart would not responsive ring 1 Even Fashion's slaves are rapt beyond control And start to find they still possess a soul. But oh ! in Handel's strain, that awes and charms. List him as Samson taunt the giant's alarms. Or else as gentle Acis trill his lay. Or as brave Maccabceus fire the fray ; Or hear him in those strains most rapt of all. As Jephthah mourn his one loved daughter's fall, And then, with heart-restoring melodies Follow her angel-wafted to the skies. — Can critics list, and coldly say " 'Twas well V And can the Public wake not to the spell ? c 18 THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS, It wakes, to momentary glow it wakes : Beneath, the charm Convention all forsakes ; The vast crowd thrill with joys unknown till then, And Music stirs the hearts of Englishmen. But soon that most unwonted ardour dies, Ardour that must its owners much surprise. The crowd goes home, and mutters, " I declare, " Reeves does sing finely though," " Yes, very fair, — " " Not in good taste, though, quite, but he'll im- prove," — And so the dull world slides along its groove. And yet the artist better fares by far Than the poor poet in the unequal war. The painter shows his stores that charm the eye, And scarce the crowd will pass the canvas by ; The minstrel sings, and hearts, perforce, obey The magic influence of the rapturous lay : The poet stands not in the market-place. The world can slight him, to its own disgrace. But, friends, if Execution prized should be For genial fire and inborn sympathy. May not a word of just acclaim be given To bold Conception, elder born of heaven ? THE TEAN8CENDBNTALI8TS. 19 Ranks the performer genius' sons among, The strain's Creator should not rest unsung. And sure, 'twere wrong, to yield not tribute free, Poet in sounds, and eke in words, to thee ! Let none condemn that from the aspiring throng I call thy name to twine it with my song : Though many a genial soul may seek the bays, No heart will blame me if my friend I praise ; Regard and admiration claim their debt, And surely earth must own thy genius yet. I know, and prize, and well can estimate Thy spirit's throes beneath the frost of Fate. Free joy in nature, keen delight in art. The instincts twinborn that inspire thy heart, Even these have barred thy swift access to fame ; Alas, plain honesty's a losing game. But here I'll name the twofold role thou play'st, Genial creator, arbiter of taste, And proud, proclaim myself thy fresh song's lover. Prompt Genius, void of rank pretence, Howard Glover ! And now we'll linger not in Art's domain : Turn where we will, alike must ring the strain ; c 2 20 THE TKANSCENDENTALISTS. While commonplace holds despot-domination Its trump will laud intense exaggeration, Or stagnant tameness like itself serene ; Now high, now low, it rarely hits the mean. 0, can no change be hoped 1 Must Dulness rule 1 Must tame Convention keep us all at school 1 Must Transcendental madness challenge fame In Genius 'stead, while Genius ranks for tame 1 Yes, long as this Anonymous maintains Its leaden empire. Art must toil in chains, Long as blank ignorance can wisdom ape. And knaves the forfeit of their malice scape. One only sword can smite Conventionality, And that's outspeaking Individuality. From individuals all that's great proceeds. The mass are slow, the master-spirit leads ; And ne'er were master-spirits needed more Than in an age which votes true Art a bore, Which mediocrity alone can flatter, And which I'm fondly petting in my satire. But where's the use, you'll ask, few spirits bold ! Who know the truth, and knew before I told, THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS 21 To run a tilt against a world of folly ? There's nothing left but hopeless Melancholy. Nay, say not so, brave hearts ! We'll stand together, A British phalanx, spite of wind and weather. Though blunt Convention seem to reign at wiU, There live the embers of perception still ; The masses yet may move, may wake, may stir ; woe to Humbug then, to hers and her ! That PubUc vast, which from pretence recoiling, Has poesy abandoned long to spoihng, (111 edified by artificial strains To con whose meaning task'd such studious brains,) May list more natural songs, and welcome too : Then farewell to the Transcendental crew ! Yes, since the chilliest winter yields to Spring, This cheering prophecy we'll dare to sing. Reality has not deserted earth, And Genius still has sons of wit and worth : To name them here might lead the Muse too far. But Heav'n forbid that we should cloud a star ! And lest you ween me blind to high desert, (Not that my silence or my blame could hurt. 22 THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. For still the Spirit of the Age will sway Though the rash satirist puff himself away,) We'll own, this Age hath many a gaUant son, Who fairly wears the laurels freely won. In War, in Art, in State, in Science' sphere. And when had Britain Ruler half so dear ■? In what we love faults oft take gloomiest hue, And thus, my countrymen, I warred on you ; Yet dull Convention has prevail'd, how far ! Wake, Britons, wake, and show us what you are ! Let fresh reforms with old affections blend. Till mists disperse, and Heav'n's pure beams descend. Meanwhile, two living names shall grace the lay. Our Age's pride, Dickens and Thackeray. Nor ween, because in sportive blithesome guise They read their lessons, we may these misprize : Whatever form free Genius will to bear, Its rays must haply purify the air. 0, would this verse could happier tribute yield To those, whose wit was sword, whose worth is shield ! One, with right earnest zeal, despising scorn. Paints Britain's poor and pleads for souls forlorn : THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. 23 Aye, while his merriest jests the surface hit, The deepest pathos mingles with his wit ; And all that's fashionably mean and small And heartless, — how he kicks the narrow ball ! For thee, great Satirist, who snobs hast made And modern snoblife tremble 'neath thy blade. That trenchant blade, which bared in Justice' cause, Hath pall'd Convention's heart and maim'd its paws, I know, thy soul, which Humbug awes in vain, Will yield some secret response to the strain ; That if a world of fools conspired to burn me Thy voice would whisper, " Well done, Archer Gurney !" So here I'll end this monitory strain. Content to reap the harvest of disdain If HeaVn decree, and Pate should frown, not smile : The hour must come, and I can wait awhile. In future times approving sage may say, " When havoc's dogs were slipp'd he stood at bay, " And, though his strong desire his power surpassed, " His aim was noble, and 'twas reach'd at last." THE TRAKSCEroENTALISTS. FYTTE THE SECOND. Mit Dei Dunmilieit kampfen Gfbttei selbst vergebens. SCHILLEK. FYTTE THE SECOND. Ill has the world received the adventurous strain And many a critic dubbed the Muse insane. Yet earlier bards more fiercely far have sung In ages past, — and all remained unhung ! Dryden and Pope, by indignation fired, Warred on their Age, and were by it admired. I, far less sweeping in my blame than they, Must fall, 'twould seem, this vengeful Age's prey. These couplets did the shivering Muse indite, Sore batter'd and forsaken in the fight. " Of all the wars that fraught with danger are The war with folly is the deadliest far. You ween a score of noodles to attack And find you've brought a myriad on your back. 28 THE TKANSCENDENTALISTS. Lash taste and genius, or assail the schools, But never touch the sacred herd of fools ! If touch you will, then, caitiff, ware your crown ! For swing one pump, you'll bring whole oceans down. But would you seal your absolute disgrace. Dispute the sway of pompous Commonplace : Hint that a dolt can use the royal We, — Most marvellous, most insane, audacity ! This race so long despotic sway enjoyed, So long unquestioned, ravaged and destroyed, That aught attempt their empire to invade, Is held rank sacrilege in man or maid. True, Byron once presumed the blow to strike. But are you Byron, man, to dare the like 1 Know your own place, nor impiously presume To wave a torchlight through the sacred gloom !" Yea, those who soar in soul above the dust. Yet to the craft pertain, think wrath most just, And strangely will appropriate to themselves The satire aim'd at less illustrious elves. " A poet," cry they, " who can bark and bite, And dares his judge, the critic, to indict. Has really placed himself without the ban ; Nor praise nor censure suits such impious man." THE TRANSCKNDENTALISTS. 29 But, friends, since when— I dread to rouse your spleen — Have editors so very sacred been 1 Is all the world confessed the satirist's prey Except the critics, his commanders they 1 Like mounts, by magnifying mists enfurl'd, That cast their giant shadows o'er the world. Think once again ! The bard the bard remains, Despite the spitefiillest satiric strains. His thunders after all could work no charm, A single bard was impotent to harm. Let him at pleasure rhyme his antique views ! His ineffectual wrath need but amuse, As summer-meteors for a moment play. Whisk through the air, and whiz themselves away, And those who own the powers to him denied May surely yield the loser leave to chide. Yes, generous critic, by conviction buoyed, (And I full oft the thundering We employed. And thence could scarcely purpose to deny That critic might be just, as well as I,) Spirits of higher mood shall haply say, " Us reaches not the overboisterous lay. 30 THE TBANSCENDBNTALISTS. " We know that oft pretentious dulness croaks " Harsh oracles, and cracks right aimless jokes ; " And even if poet in his turn too far " The assault should push, just seems the chance of " war, " And generous response to the ardent song " Shall teach the wight his sweeping blame was wrong." And, once for all, if harshly chimed the verse. The public taste is bad, was rarely worse ; Exaggeration glares o'er Art's doniain. And the Anonymous is honour's bane, Levels all intellects, the dense or bright, Since cows may pass for lions in the night. And naught men need a critic-fame to found, Save rich vocabularies : then, they're crown'd ! And must the helpless sufferers be dumb. Nor trace the source from whence such miseries come 1 And if one rise, abuses to attack, Must he be stretch'd upon the public rack 1 Must lion-kings majestically roar If he would drive a gosling from the shore 1 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. 31 Must his impiety for reckless pass If he presume to dub an ass — an ass 1 Ween not, I much entreat thee, reader mine, That spitefiil soul this protest did design ; Nor think that malice bade me censure him Proclaim'd a genius by blind fortune's whim. In this poor " Smith," aU faults that mark the age, Verbal profusion, transcendental rage, Pick'd epithets, the fruits of yearlong toil, Such images as liken ire to oil. Affections chill'd to fractured china-jars, Most things to waves, and everything to stars. Strewn o'er each page of forced and swollen rhyme, Bombast of woe, and altitudes sublime, — All seem'd to meet in overwhelming show ; Mock poetry could scarce beyond him go. And London critics in eulogiums vied. Though some few thinkers sought to stem the tide. Yea, many a wight, who owns both mind and soul, Did the delirium of the hour control ; And swayed by memories fond of Tennyson This foohsh echo their applauses won. 32 THE TEANSCENDBNTALISTS. His lack of reason they ascribed to youth ; " Time will teach measure," quoth they, " art, and truth : Meanwhile his similes sublimely stray. His stars would form a second milky way. And if we scan no meaning in the song It has a mighty sound, and cadence strong. True, there's no whole, no one complete effect ; But that from youth 'twere cruel to expect. Some single lines there are, both bold and sweet. And startling epithets at times we meet. And starry images — oh, ask not which ! 'Tis all conftision, but confusion rich ; A Delphic maze without prosaic plan : We'll hope the genial youth shaU. make a man ! " A grand mistake in criticism this : Who judge by lines must always judge amiss. A thousand painted bits of glass may shine, But worthless rest they if they won't combine To frame one window with a free design. The first essentials for the work of art Are central unity that blends each part, An innate taste to work a mild control. And commonsense that balances the whole. THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. 33 Then let Imagination heav'nward soar, But earth's foundation must be rear'd before, And they who 'twixt the twain would ride the air As ill as thoughtless Phaeton shall fare. 'Tis true, the Muse no leaden fetters knows. But let her not yield sense, taste, thought to Prose ! And mark, — true Poets from within create ; No labour'd pomp boast they, no swelling state ; They seek no images with fever'd brains Through wide creation's measureless domains. Intent a vulgar wonder to excite ; Calmly their Muse ascends her natural flight. Not so the bold pretender, who would storm The heav'n of heav'ns, his mural crown to form. He, by few genial sympathies inspired. By no creative rapturous impulse fired. Crude epithet on epithet will pile. Image on image crowd, add mile to mile. Until he clears the ground in seven-league style : Yet all his painful efforts will not teach One natural accent of the Muse's speech. D 34 THE TRANSCENDENT ALISTS. The power to cull from nature's beauties fair Apt images, believe me, is not rare. If these as glittering gawds are but employ'd. Flimsy gilt-spangles. Taste will soon be cloy'd. Such illustrations secondary place Assume at best, they add a happy grace, Wreathing their flow'rs around the column's base : But then the base itself must firmly stand ; Flow'rs in the air will hang not at command ; And should the blossoms artificial be, The column's base without the trumpery ! And so, in brief. Art's precepts to rehearse, 'Tis truth, not paradox, inspires the verse, — A sound substratum, aye, of sense must lie ; Fond Fancy then may rear her turret high : Let Passion's billows through your verses roll. But let not Madness' ocean whelm the whole : Let stars of Purity the page illume, Or call the sacred Night to image Gloom ; But seek not all the spheres in verse to pack, A second Atlas, groaning on wit's rack, A whole Creation slung behind your back ! THE TEANSCBNDENTALISTS. 35 Why, fancies, such as these, will swarm Uke bees, A million fold, chance flow'rs, cloud-images. Round the true bard, and he ne'er stoop to seize. Conscious his Muse has hymned a worthier song. He lets them glitter past, the garish throng. Nor seeks her simpler beauties to enhance By flow'rs and gems, the youngest born of chance. Yet takes them, when his theme inspires their birth, And rates them nor below, nor o'er their worth. But they who own no genial impulse true. And still will claim the laurel crown their due. Rack their dull brains strange fancies to invent While kind folks ween 'twas Inspiration sent ; And with moon, stars, and waves such pother make You'd think old Chaos all his fetters brake, And scribbled English verse for glory's sake. Well, louder, fiercer, swell'd the storm of praise ; Some sware that Smith's excell'd a Keats' lays. Preferring this barbaric aimless whirl To rare " St. Agnes Eve," that matchless pearl. Where fancy's wand, by purest taste controU'd, Conjured enchantments that shall ne'er wax old. 36 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. Seem'd it not time such ocean-tide to stem 1 Could it be stern these frenzies to condemn 1 To make one eflfort injured Art to save From Transcendental Folly's self-wrought grave ? For such exaggerations taste must pall Till the tired public verse a nuisance call, And " universal darkness buries all." But seems it harsh, perchance, to hunt the hare, While the red lion snuflFs the forest air 1 Should I pursue an Alexander's track, While Alfred glares his calm defiance back "? Ah, Alfred, Alfred, gentlest child of song. Rich in meek ditties, in bland pastorals strong, Is't thou who savage rhymes hast pished and pshawed 1 Is't thou who wrot'st this rude barbaric " Maud 1 " Sure, in another, freak thus vile might pass. But woe, when our chief lion brays an ass. When yielding to the hour's delirious call He steeps his music in unfathomed gall. No, Tennyson, this grim Vandalic mood, This gibbering scorn for all that's great and good. This fierce mock-passion, aim'd at boys' applause. These hideous rhymes, these leafless hips and haws, THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. 37 This Locksley-hall-man with a wider scope, Whose soul's desert were verily a rope, This puHng maundering over harmless flow'rs, Which rose and lily strips of Nature's dow'rs, This simple twaddle, affectation-bred, This dull inanity of " Dead, dead, dead," And last, this sanguine cry for blood, red blood. To wash away the deep-encrusted mud Alike from century and thy hero's soul — What call'st thou this 1 Is't not— a nameless whole ^ And thou could'st fling it on the world, unawed By wholesome dread, this shapeless moony " Maud !" 'Tis not a worthless poem we deplore : Alack, we recognise what irks far more, The worst delusions of the fever'd age Reflected grimly in our Laureate's page. The knowledge of thy weakness, and thy strength. Makes us cry out, Thou, sunk so low at length ! To thee the raging floods of folly soar'd. And in thine urn of frenzy hast thou pour'd. The waters mount ; they threat Art's palace high, Nay, Virtue's citadel that fronts the sky ; All Truth, e'en Beauty's self, be slighted now — Thou giv'st the watchword, " Maud and Madness," thou ! 38 THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. Ah, dare we hope, that ills so huge, so vast, .Like icebergs toppling o'er their heights at last, May vanish, while the ocean's deeps serene Laugh 'neath the sunshine in immortal green 1 So be't ! May Frenzy reach its destined bourn. And Tennyson the sweet to Art return ! In Delia Cruscan days of catgut wire The bane of Poetry was lack of fire. Humdrum decorum wore the scentless wreath. And the Muse trotted scentless skies beneath. Then Cowper winged a shaft through Dulness' mail, (Well has our wise Macaulay told the tale) : In freeborn accents Olney's poet spoke. And with a start the slumbering Public woke. Then mightier names, a Wordsworth, Southey, Scott, Felt the Land's heart, and found 'twas wither'd not ; And last the impetuous Byron stream'd along His restless current of indignant song. Still reason's boundaries scarce were marks for scorn. Still Art was prized, though Life was elder-born ; Still Moore, Keats, Campbell, Byron's self could deign In decent grammar couch the impassion'd strain, Respect the fixed observances of Right, Nor deal in downright Drivel Bedlamite. THE TRANSCBNDENTALISTS. 39 But human kind, that rarely knows a mean, Discarding tameness lept to rage obscene, And anxious to assert its birthright due Began in labouring verse to spit and spew, To splutter, wriggle, boggle, rustle, hammer, In glorious independency of grammar. To prove our genius wild, we rage, we boil. We thunder, till King Lear's dread wrath seems oil ; To show our minds unbounded in their scope We twine the stars about us like a rope ; We pierce the misty void, and fire away Eternal yarns the less we have to say. And get the cry for ecstacy sublime. Because we mock the bounds of sense or rhyme. Meanwhile, the hapless Public stands aloof. Murmuring, " I thought I saw an ass's hoof ; But, list, — 'tis plain — the angry lion's roar : I ne'er knew Poetry was such a bore !" can that Public wake 1 Is morning near 1 Ne'er seem'd the mists more dense, the shades more drear ; " List to us nightingales," the harsh frogs croak : Rise, Sun of Truth, and blast them with thy stroke ! 40 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS. But now the public taste seems quite enslaved, By appetite for Novelty depraved. Thence aflfectation and unnatural rant Make gaping swains deliriously pant ; Thence the essential for the rhyming trade Is this, the rhymes must mot be felt, but made. Effort there must be — things to make one start, And Art must take good heed to boast its art. The calmest spirits and the firmest minds Confess the charm of glare, which burns, and blinds ; And yet, with all this show of labour'd rage, 'Tis just precisely passion fails the page. Thus take the tenderer passages of " Maud," Which all the critics so devoutly laud : " I have led her home, my love, ray only friend — " What's lacking 1 Truth. The rhymes are featly penn'd ; Biit through this ardent transport's forced parade We feel at once, alas ! the thing is made. If 'twere not made, the Press were cold, be sure. It clasps the glittering dross, and scorns the ore. And whence the cause 1 — Why, sooth, when taste runs wild. It reels a muck, beguiling and beguiled. No single voice can hope to hem the flood, And Anonymity condenses mud. THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. 41 The worthiest, troubled by delirium's cries, Cease, soul-distraught, to use their ears and eyes. Fancy what all men swear can scarce be wrong And callous grow at last to natural song. E'en if they feel, if Nature will subdue, They think, " That's odd ; but still the thing's not new !" Alack, they let the madness of the hour Their reason, feeUng, taste, at once devour. And though the inner conscience may upbraid, That must be ranked for old, which is not made. friends, eternal youth is genius' prize. Let but your hearts beat true, and ope your eyes ! Pour'd e'er our Shakspeare artificial strains ? Talked he of " dry-tongued laurels," " reeling plains V Was not his art so sweet, yet so sublime, That Nature only seemed to swell the rhyme ^ But, novelty 1 Is't this your hearts desire 1 May not the ancient. seas and skies inspire 1 For ever green is England's verdant mould. For ever blue the main around her roU'd, For ever fair the morn, and sweet the flow'rs, And human hearts eternally are ours. Above is heav'n, beneath the firm true sod ; The beautifiil can never be the odd ! E 42 THE TEANSCENDENTALISTS. Tis not for dulness I mens' grace implore ; No, mediocrity must rest a bore ; But never does it so disgust the wise, As when it floundering boasts to pierce the skies. But ye are wise ! and yet ye see not thus ; Ye ween that Genius always makes a fuss, And wont believe, that inspiration true Ne'er wrought its wonders with such vast ado. friends, you're mazed by labour and turmoil ! The best of palates spices hot may spoil. Compelled to wade through reams of commonplace, That you should pant for change is no disgrace, And, erring on the lenient side, exclaim, " This fellow's something worth; — at least, he's game !" Thus rank extravagance may charm at times A soul that's worn to death by custom's chimes. But if you doubt my words, as doubt you may. Turn to your wives and daughters ! Answer they ! 'Tis not that Tennyson might not inspire ; But let them say if he has lyric fire ; Let them decide, if his be genius' strain Matched with a Wordsworth or a Byron's vein. They'll tell you, " No ! Enchantingly he writes, " His pastorals charm, his ballad sweet delights. THE TEAK8CENDENTALISTS. 43 " He has dramatic passion, feeling, force ; " But lyric genius 1 — No ;■ not that of course ! " Then lay before them Smith's or Bailey's verse. They'll cry, " this is infinitely worse ! " 'Tis like a noisy puddle — splash, splash, splash, — " I can't conceive why men should write such trash." Not aU the damsels of the Town, perchance. Might speak thus freely; some might Townward glance. And think, " Well, all the men dp so admire, I'll say, 'tis mighty fine, nor tempt their ire." But ask the maids, who, far from London's noise. Have read our noblest bards with purest joys. And set before them " Maud's " high-swelling line, See if they'll whisper, " Really, most divine," Or rather, vexed, the dandy -volume close And say, " If this be Poetry, live Prose ! " 0, trust these native instincts unsubdued ! Reviewers, be your judgments rash reviewed ! — Think not that lyric impulse must be small ; Believe that art is natural after all : Receive what G-oethe taught, nor dare despise, " In stated bounds the Master gains the prize :" Demand not affectation, queei'ness, glare ; Yet own, 'tis Genius' boon to do, and dare ! 44 THE TRANSCENDENT ALISTS. Nor seek by Tennysonian chains to bind The impulse, fresh as air, and free as wind : But let not Bedlam-rant for genius pass — Learn, learn to know, the lion from the ass ! Oh, nobler souls, who guard the Aonian mount, Believe not I your office worthless count : If fashion could awhile the thoughtful sway, It shall not, when you cast your masks away. Then shall each worthier critic reap his due, Then shall fair fame prepare her bays for you ; Not poets only shall be laurell'd then, But thinkers too shall take their stand as men, Not lost among the miscellaneous crowd. Not wrapped and buried in oblivion's shroud. But reaping all the dues their toil should gain, •And sharing wise, though scarce despotic reign. Believe, 'tis in your interest I speak. Nor anger on these truthful verses wreak. — If on some points of taste I ween'd you wrong, The worthiest whirl'd by fashion's tide along, To err is human, therefore spare the song ! A noble nature frankly will forgive : Most noble Judges, let the Poet Kve !