WITH Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?
Hereon men waste their Eloquence.
"Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.
How can you lend your Theme its Force?
How can you be direct and clear,
Concise, and (best of all) sincere,
If you must pen your Strain sublime
In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?
Who ever heard true Grief relate
Its artless Woes in 'six' and 'eight'?
Or felt his manly Bosom swell
Beneath a French-made Villanelle ?
How can your Mens divinior sing
Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring,
Where she must chant her Orphic Tale
In just so many Lines, or fail? . . ."
"Form is the first (the Others bawl);
If not, why write in Verse at all?
Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose
(If Verse be such Restraint) in Prose?
For surely if you speak your Soul
Most freely where there's least Control,
It follows you must speak it best
By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.
Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,
When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;
And barred no more by Lack of Skill,
The Mob may crowd Parnassus Hill! ..
Just at this Point-for you must know,
All this was but the To-and-fro
Of MATT and DICK who played with Thought,
And lingered longer than they ought
(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box
And trifle round a Paradox!)-
There came-but I forgot to say,
'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May-
There came a Fellow where they sat,
His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,
Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load
He set upon the Ground, and showed
His newest Toy-a Card with Strings.
On this side was a Bird with Wings,
On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!
The Twain were one.
Here's the Solution in a Word:
Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.
The Poet twirls them in his Mind,
And wins the Trick with both combined."
WHEN Fate presents us with the Bays,
We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.
We scarcely think our Fame eternal
If vouched for by the Farthing Journal;
But when the Craftsman's self has spoken
We take it for a certain Token.
This an Example best will show,
Derived from DENNIS DIDerot.
A hackney Author, who'd essayed
All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;
And failed to live by every Mode,
From Persian Tale to Birthday Ode;
Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,
In Theologic Speculation.
'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen
Had been most orthodox till then;
But oft, as SOCRATES has said,
The Stomach's stronger than the Head;
And, for a sudden Change of Creed,
There is no Jesuit like Need.
Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,
By force of Habit, from the Gaul.
He showed (the Trick is nowise new)
That Nothing we believe is true;
But chiefly that Mistake is rife
Touching the point of After-Life;
Here all were wrong from PLATO down:
His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.
The Thing created quite a Scare:-
He got a Letter from VOLTAIRE,
Naming him Ami and Confrère;
Besides two most attractive Offers
Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.
He fell forthwith his Head to lift,
To talk of "I and DR. Sw—FT";
And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,
On equal Terms, with BOLINGBROKE.
But, at the last, a Missive came
That put the Copestone to his Fame.
The Boy who brought it would not wait:
It bore a Covent-Garden Date ;—
A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink,
And Air of Bridewell or the Clink.
It ran in this wise :-Learned Sir!
We, whose Subscriptions follow here,
Desire to state our Fellow-feeling
In this Religion you're revealing.
You make it plain that if so be
We 'scape on Earth from Tyburn Tree,
There's nothing left for us to fear
In this or any other Sphere.
We offer you our Thanks; and hope
Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!
With that came all the Names beneath,
AS BLUESKIN, JERRY CLINCH, MACHEATH,
BET CARELESS, and the Rest-a Score Of Rogues and Bona Robas more.
This Newgate Calendar he read:
"Tis not recorded what he said.
|