Sketch of the Northern and the Provençal Poetry.-The moft diftinguished Epic Poets of Italy, Spain, Portugal, France, and England.
LEST be the hand that with a generous care,
To the bright Crown which Learning loves to wear,
Restores the Gem, whose lustre, faint and pale,
Died in the fold of dark Oblivion's veil.
Such praife, O MASON! to the Bard is due,
In whose fraternal guard thy Genius grew;
O'er whofe untimely grave thy Lyre has paid
Its just devotion to a Brother's fhade:
And thus hereafter fhall the British Muse,
In Memory's fane the faireft tablet chufe,
To bid her fons your blended names admire,
The pride of Friendship's as of Fancy's choir.
Thy modest GRAY, folicitous to pierce
The dark and distant fource of modern Verse,
By ftrings untried first taught his English Lyre
To reach the Gothic Harp's terrific fire:
The North's wild spectres own his potent hand,
And Hell's nine portals at his voice expand;
With new existence by his Verse endued,
See Gothic Fable wakes her fhadowy brood,
Which, in the Runic rhymes of many a Scald,
With pleafing dread our Northern fires appall'd.
Ye brave Progenitors, ye vigorous Source Of modern Freedom and of Europe's force,
While your rude minds, athirst for martial ftrife,
Mock'd all the meaner arts of polish'd life,
The Muse still led you by her magic clue,
And from your favage ftrength new vigor drew.
In War's dire field your dauntlefs Bards appear'd,
Aloft their animating harps they rear'd,
Pour'd through the charging hoft their potent strain,
And fwell'd the fiery flood in Valor's vein.
Souls thus infpir'd, în every scene elate,
Defied the utmoft rage of adverse fate;
In tort'ring death the Royal Captive fang,
And smiles of triumph hid his mortal pang.
Thus to brave ODIN's Songs, our Northern fire,
Rude, early framer of the modern Lyre,
Fierce Freedom gave an energy fublime,
Parent and Guardian of the Gothic Rhyme.
While nurtur'd in the North's protecting arms,
The modern Muse display'd her infant charms,
Like Jove's undaunted Child her spirit glow'd,
And force Herculean in her cradle fhew'd;
Her native scene in roughness she surpast,
Her breath tempeftuous as the Northern blast:
But, when to fofter climes the vagrant flew,
And bafk'd beneath a sky of azure hue;
When for her throne the flowery South she chose,
And form'd her crown of the Provençal Rose;
Warm'd by a brighter Sun's relaxing beams,
She tun'd her alter'd voice to tender themes:
Here her gay form a gaudier dress affumes,
And shines in Chivalry's imperial plumes ;
Her votaries wear proud Honor's mystic glove,
And every lyre refounds Romantic Love;
Save when, to burft Oppreffion's mental chain,
Keen Satire mingles with this gallant train,
Strikes Prieftly pride with Wit's vindictive flash,
And galls the ghoftly Tyrant with her lash. *
Afraid of Poefy's expanfive flood,
These early Bards along the fhallows feud
In fome light skiff; for on the depths untried
No full-trimm'd veffel floats in Epic pride.
As infants, eager for regard, abound
In fportive efforts of uncertain found,
Before their little artless lips can reach
The harder elements of perfect speech;
So the young language of each modern clime
Rofe by prelufive lays to lofty rhyme.
Thro' many an age, while, in the Convent bred,
O'er the chill'd mind fcholaftic darkness spread,
Those keener Spirits, who from Nature caught
The warmth that kindles to Poetic thought,
Betray'd, Ambition! by thy blind defire,
Struck with ill-fated zeal the Latian lyre, †
Tho' Difcord's hand the jarring ftrings had croft,,
And all the fweetnefs of their tone was loft..
* Ver. 60. See NOTE II.
† Ver. 75. See NOTE III.
|