English Poets of the Eighteenth Century

English poetry -- 18th century

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
  He has not left a better or wiser behind.
  His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
  His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
  Still born to improve us in every part--
  His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart.
  To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
  When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing;
  When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
  He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.




  JAMES BEATTIE


  FROM THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS
  OF GENIUS

  Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,
  That a poor villager inspires my strain;
  With thee let pageantry and power abide:
  The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;
  Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain
  Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms.
  They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,
  The parasite their influence never warms,
  Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

  Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
  Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
  Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
  While warbling larks on russet pinions float;
  Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
  Where the grey linnets carol from the hill:
  O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
  To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,
  But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!

         *       *       *       *       *

  And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy.
  Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye.
  Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,
  Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy;
  Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;
  And now his look was most demurely sad;
  And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.
  The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad;
  Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.

         *       *       *       *       *

  In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight,
  Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.
  In darkness and in storm he found delight,
  Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
  The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen.
  Even sad vicissitude amused his soul;
  And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
  And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
  A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control.

         *       *       *       *       *

  When the long-sounding curfew from afar
  Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale,
  Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,
  Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale.
  There would he dream of graves, and corses pale,
  And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng,
  And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,
  Till silenced by the owl's terrific song,
  Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along.

         *       *       *       *       *

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

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General

English Poets of the Eighteenth Century

English poetry -- 18th century

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
  He has not left a better or wiser behind.
  His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
  His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
  Still born to improve us in every part--
  His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart.
  To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
  When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing;
  When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
  He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.




  JAMES BEATTIE


  FROM THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS
  OF GENIUS

  Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,
  That a poor villager inspires my strain;
  With thee let pageantry and power abide:
  The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;
  Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain
  Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms.
  They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,
  The parasite their influence never warms,
  Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

  Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
  Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
  Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
  While warbling larks on russet pinions float;
  Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
  Where the grey linnets carol from the hill:
  O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
  To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,
  But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!

         *       *       *       *       *

  And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy.
  Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye.
  Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,
  Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy;
  Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;
  And now his look was most demurely sad;
  And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.
  The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad;
  Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.

         *       *       *       *       *

  In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight,
  Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.
  In darkness and in storm he found delight,
  Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
  The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen.
  Even sad vicissitude amused his soul;
  And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
  And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
  A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control.

         *       *       *       *       *

  When the long-sounding curfew from afar
  Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale,
  Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,
  Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale.
  There would he dream of graves, and corses pale,
  And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng,
  And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,
  Till silenced by the owl's terrific song,
  Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along.

         *       *       *       *       *

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

English Poets of the Eighteenth Century

English Poets of the Eighteenth Century

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