With pride, O MUNDY, can a soul like thine
Survey the stores of Fortune’s golden mine;
All her caprice can give, or can restrain,
All that can glut the sordid, and the vain;
The circling grove, the lawns extended wide,
Flocks, white and numerous, on the green hill’s side,
The menial train, gay roof, and costly food,
The graceful person, and the gentle blood;
Since thy keen glance, where’er it turns, may see,
Fools, coxcombs, villains, share those claims with thee?—
Thee! on whose path Aonian splendours shine,
And shame the treasures of the golden mine.
No, MUNDY, no!—th’ injurious doubt forget,
Pardon the needless fear, the vain regret,
While in a juster scale thy spirit weighs
The Muse’s smile, with fashion’s empty praise!
But soft, thy steady purposes require
Graver applause than vibrates on the lyre;
Scorning to feed their fame with such slight things
As fond libations from Pierian springs,
From BURN, and BLACKSTONE, they incessant draw
The thicken’d juices of important Law!
But ah! what equal honours can reward
The toil, which to a Justice, chang’d a Bard!
O! when clear spirits, generous, rapt, inspir’d,
By judgment cultur’d, as by genius fir’d,
Stoop from the heights, whence they had shed, sublime,
Th’ etherial essence of the deathless rhyme,
And in the dimmer sphere of mortal light,
Drop the strong pinion, plum’d for eagle-flight,
Something we feel of that regretful pain,
Impress’d by busy memory on the brain,
Sad as she marks the illustrious Rousseau
Imprint the harmonic types, intent and slow.
How does the heart for wasted talents grieve,
Recalling thus, the dark, improsp’rous eve,
When one dull taper o’er the labour’d page
Flings its weak ray, and aids the hapless sage
With toil, like this, to obtain an humble bed,
On which might rest secure his honour’d head!
Deep shall the feeling heart his fate deplore,
That sees him, from repeated treachery sore,
With thirst of independence half insane,
Its fever’d ardour throbbing through each vein,
Scorn the luxurious board, where flattery sings,
Scorn titled friendship, and the boon of kings,
And earn scant viands to support that frame,
Whose spirit lives, the immortal “Heir of Fame!”
But, MUNDY, thou, by kinder fate, art laid
Where smiling affluence spreads her verdant shade.
Not thee, Dependence’ torpid hand restrains,
Binding thy glowing soul in icy chains;
Her freezing breath nor bids thy warblings cease,
Nor blights the stainless lilies of thy peace;
Then, from its track wilt thou thy spirit force,
Though gleams of glory mark its happy course?
O! tell it not, ye bright Parnassian maids,
On Hebrus’ bank, nor in the Lydian shades,
Lest Bacchanalian sons of Thrace rejoice,
Lest Midas’ daughters triumph in the choice!
The sagest magistrate on Derwent side!—
Is that the fame, to fire a Poet’s pride?
Shall MUNDY bid the lyric pæan pause,
That county-halls may murmur hoarse applause?
I know thy specious maxim, to delude
Thy mind’s strong impulse from sublimer good,
“Be useful.”—’Tis the motto of the wise,
But efforts surely should with talents rise;
Those efforts disproportion’d to the powers,
In one erroneous stream of lavish’d hours
Life glides,—and reason’s tear regretful flows,
Since no reflux the speedy current knows.
Most useful he, perhaps, who tills the soil,
Yet, to mean minds we leave that needful toil;
But MUNDY poises, through his wide command,
The scales of equity with even hand!—
We grant the purpose worthy, yet can see
Numbers as equal to that task as he.
Common humanity, and shrewd plain sense,
May gain each honour Sessions can dispense,
Acquire each art, by which his Worship knows
The petty wounds of equity to close.
Superior views the Poet’s labours claim,
Enduring good to man his glorious aim.
In that high hope he bids the kindling page
Illume with virtue’s ray, the distant age;
Till all of Great, of Amiable, and Wise,
In brilliant lights, and beauteous colours rise;
Gay imag’ry with moral precept blend,
Nature’s fine limner, Virtue’s ablest friend,
Such, as when standing in the forest green,
The Bard immortalized the wood-wild scene,
And mix’d, with skill, amongst the traces bright,
Truth’s mellow tints, and Pity’s tender light.
O shall he cease to hymn great Nature’s stores,
Her vales irriguous, her resounding shores;
Her watry world, in azure curves display’d;
Th’ enamel’d mead, the forest’s pomp of shade;
All that the mountain’s steepy summits yield;
All that the morning’s ruddy blushes gild;
And all that basks in noon’s refulgent glare,
Or shadowy sinks beneath the evening star?
O! shall he cease, on Virtue’s charms serene,
On Sensibility’s enamour’d mien,
On mild Philosophy’s exploring care,
On Wisdom beauteous, yet severely fair,
On ardent Science, gentle Love, to throw
Poetic hues of ever-living glow?
Forbid the cold apostacy, ye powers
That shed Aonian roses on his bowers!
May Mundy’s hand, illum’d by all your fire,
Assert its claims, and reassume the lyre!
Then, while each neighbouring squire, and justice, post,
On Time’s fleet wing, to cold Oblivion’s coast,
Though rich, as ere the liveried suit display’d,
Though wise, as e’er the county-hall obey’d,
Thou, finer spirit, urge thy happier way,
Where shines, for Genius, Fame’s unsetting day!
Should coronets with stars and garters blend,
And, at the royal nod, in state descend,
Ah say, could Fortune, in her vainest mood,
Deck’d with these glittering types of airy good,
Vie with the powers, from Nature’s hand obtain’d,
By art and learning polish’d and sustain’d?
Powers, that, exalting o’er the titled throng
The glowing children of the deathless song,
With immortality’s bright meed reward
The exalted labours of the honour’d bard;
Such, MASON, as thy splendid verse displays,
Or stream, in varied course, through HAYLEY’S lays,
Or as, when BEATTIE, ’mid the lonely vale,
Breath’d all the soul of music on the gale,
Whose tuneful numbers sacred truths impart,
Fir’d the charm’d fancy, and exalt the heart.
MUNDY, the Nine ordain thou should’st aspire
To share the sacred empire of the lyre;
That ceaseless round thy auburn brows entwine
Wit’s sparkling gems, and fancy’s rays divine.
And shalt thou with a chill’d and thankless soul,
Contemn their honours, and their fires controul?
Or to their shrines thy glowing wreath refuse,
Who dipt its florets in their living dews?
Ah no! thy talents are thy country’s claim;
Her public press, the Rubicon of fame,
She bids thee pass;—and though its sable wave
Prepares for Dulness a disgraceful grave,
It must be past, ere Genius can attain
Its destin’d goal in Glory’s radiant fane.
Far on the opposing shore thy sharpen’d sight
May penetrate the altar’s blazing height,
And on its mystic tablet plainly see
These lines, poetic Fame inscrib’d for thee.
“To me, O MUNDY, give the indebted lay,
“Thy place is here,—my Minstrel, come away!”