What use a whole on such a crowd to press,
Who will to pieces pull it ne'ertheless?
Poet. You do not feel how deep the stain
Of such a craft-how base the soil!
How little what you wish to gain
Befits the genuine artist's toil!
Such daubing work as this-with you
I see 's a maxim to pursue !
Man. Such a reproof I do not mind,
The man who means his work to fit
Must use the best tools he can find:
Consider! you've soft wood to split !
And just bethink you-what are these
Whom what you write is meant to please!
One comes from very idleness,
Another dull'd by overfeeding,
And still more to be fear'd is this
That some have been the papers reading!
Most throng to us from want of thought
As to a masquerade or ball,
'Tis curiosity has wrought
The wings that guide the steps of all The ladies give themselves and dress, To all, their beauty to display, Serving us well, we must confess,
They with us act—and not for pay !
What are you dreaming on your poet's height?
Why from a full house pleasure should you draw?
Examine close your patrons of the night!
One half are cold-the other half are raw !
The curtain down-one's wishes bend
On cards or dice before he rest;
Another, a wild night to spend
Upon some harlot's heaving breast!
Why, then, poor fools! so waste your time amiss,
Plaguing the Muses for an end like this?
Give to them more and more! I tell you plain,
And add to this yet more and more again!
So
you will never widely miss your mark ;
And mystify them! keep them in the dark!
To give content's an end most hard to gain—
But say what moves you? Is it joy or pain?
Poet. Begone! and seek thyself another slave !
The poet then, for thee must sport away,
The highest right of man, that nature gave?
Through what has he o'er every heart his sway ?
By what does he each element control?
Is 't not the music breathing from his soul,
Which, gushing from his heart, with sweetest strain
Draws back the world into his heart again?
When Nature, from her staff, with placid strength,
Draws forth her thread's interminable length;
When all the forms of being, mix'd, confounding,
Tuneless and harsh, are through each other sounding,
Who is it warms with life, and wakes to song,
Disposing so the equal-gliding throng,
That all harmoniously it floats along?
Who is it doth the individual call,
To join the consecration sent for all,
Where it swells forth, an ever-glorious chime?
Who bids the passion-tempest rage sublime?
Who lights the ray of evening's red
That in the pensive spirit glows?
Who on the loved one's path can shed
All beauteous blossoms spring bestows?
Who is it hath the skill to bind
From worthless leaves, a garland fair,
That, greatness, worth of every kind
Will, as a wreath of honour, wear?
What is it climbs Olympus' height,
Makes gods but equals of its own?
'Tis of the soul that power and might,
As through the POET it is shown!
Mer. These boasted powers, use you then!
Your trade poetical pursue,
E'en in the self-same mode, as men
A love adventure carry through!
By accident drawn nigh-perchance,
You're struck, and stay, and get involved;
Then something will the joy enhance,
And now the spell is half dissolved:
Again we feel entranced-and then
Distress and pain break in again—
And thus, almost before 'tis known,
It quite to a romance has grown!
In this way, then, our play we'll give,
But paint man's life in fulness there.
All in its torrent move and live,
But few are of its depths aware,
And take it from what point you will,
It interests and pleases still;
Though motley images you weave,
Yet mingle with them something clear;
Mid much that's false, and may deceive,
Let some small spark of truth appear!
That is the way a drink to brew
That quickens all-enlightens too!
Our choicest youth you then will find
Then from your work each gentle mind
Its melancholy food will steal;
Now moving this and that, by turns you bid
All see what in their inmost soul is hid.
For 'tis alone the youthful heart,
Where mirth and sorrow yet combine,
Gives honour to the lofty part,
And praise to what may chance to shine! 'Tis vain to try the old and form'd to please, The young and forming you delight with ease! Poet. Then give me also back the days, The time when I myself was young! When yet a gushing fount of lays Sprang out all freshly as I sung! When mists yet veil'd from view my world, And when my bud-as yet uncurl'd, Still promised wonders ;—when I wove The flowers I pluck'd in every grove! The time in which I naught possess'd, And yet enough to make me bless'd; The longing for the true-the real, The pleasure in the bright ideal ! Oh! give me back those joys unnamed, And each warm impulse never tamed ! That rapture, so intense, it thrill'd
My being with a sense of pain; That energy of Hate, that fill'd
Uncheck'd, my heart, oh! bring again! And Love in all its power and truth!
Oh! give me, give me back my youth!
Mer. Ah! my good friend, 'tis youth indeed, That you sometimes, perchance, may need,
When, in the sudden fight's alarms,
Your foeman gives your skill a check,
Or when the loveliest maiden's arms
Are twined with ardour round your neck!
Or when the garland of the course,
Yet distant shining, beckons on,
And bids you spur the panting horse,
Towards the goal so hardly won!
When after dancing's mad delight
One drinks, carousing, through the night!
But the familiar lyre to sweep,
To touch its chords with lively grace,
self-chosen aim to keep
A happy self-appointed pace;
That is your task, old friend, to-day,
We'll for it praise no less your skill,— Age makes not childish, as men say,
It finds us but true children still!
Man. Well! words enough we've long been changing,
But now some deeds I fain would see;
While you are compliments arranging,
We might do something usefully.
Why talk so much of tuning here ?
No hesitation brings it round;
Say that you 're poets, and no fear,
But poetry will soon be found.
What 'tis we want, I need not say,
Strong drink, my friend-so brew away!
Things not begun to-day,―with sorrow
You'll find will not be done to-morrow!
A day in dallying none should spend ;
Let resolution, then, arise,
And seize the possible, my friend,
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