The Poetical Works of James Beattie
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Some of the few now offered to the Public would perhaps have been suppressed, if in making this collection I had implicitly followed my own judgment. But in so small a matter, who would refuse to submit his opinion to that of a friend?
It is of no consequence to the reader to know the date of any of these little poems. But some private reasons determined the author to add, that most of them were written many years age, and that the greatest part of the Minstrel, which is his latest attempt in this way, was composed in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight.
PREFACE TO THE MINSTREL
The design was to trace the progress of a Poetical Genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a Minstrel, that is, as an itinerant Poet and Musician; – a character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was not only respectable, but sacred.
I have endeavoured to imitate Spenser in the measure of his verse, and in the harmony, simplicity, and variety of his composition. Antique expressions I have avoided; admitting, however, some old words, where they seemed to suit the subject; but I hope none will be found that are now obsolete, or in any degree not intelligible to a reader of English poetry.
To those who may be disposed to ask, what could induce me to write in so difficult a measure, I can only answer that it pleases my ear, and seems, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear some relation to the subject and spirit of the Poem. It admits both simplicity and magnificence of sound and of language beyond any other stanza that I am acquainted with. It allows the sententiousness of the couplet, as well as the more complex modulation of blank verse. What some critics have remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the ear, will be found to hold true, only when the poetry is faulty in other respects.
THE MINSTREL
BOOK I
THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.
BOOK I
IAh! who can tell how hard it is to climbThe steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublimeHas felt the influence of malignant star,And waged with Fortune an eternal war;Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,And Poverty's unconquerable bar,In life's low vale remote has pined alone,Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!IIAnd yet the languor of inglorious days,Not equally oppressive is to all:Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,The silence of neglect can ne'er appall.There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;Supremely blest, if to their portion fallHealth, competence, and peace. Nor higher aimHad he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.IIIThe rolls of fame I will not now explore;Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore,Right glad of heart, though homely in array;His waving locks and beard all hoary gray;While from his bending shoulder decent hungHis harp, the sole companion of his way,Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.IVFret 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 thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swainEnraptur'd 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.VThough 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 gray 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!VILiberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;Nor was perfection made for man below:Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow;If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.VIIThen grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent MuseVouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuseThe imperial banquet, and the rich attire:Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd;Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.VIIICanst thou forego the pure ethereal soulIn each fine sense so exquisitely keen,On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen;Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen,Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,(The mansion then no more of joy serene),Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide,And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?IXO how canst thou renounce the boundless storeOf charms which Nature to her votary yields!The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;All that the genial ray of morning gilds,And all that echoes to the song of even,All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,And all the dread magnificence of Heaven,O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!XThese charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealthE'er win its way to thy corrupted heart:For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart;Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme,The stern resolve unmov'd by pity's smart,The troublous day, and long distressful dream.Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme.XIThere liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell,A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;But he, I ween, was of the north countrie;31A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms;Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms;Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.XIIThe shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;An honest heart was almost all his stock:His drink the living water from the rock;The milky dams supplied his board, and lentTheir kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent,Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.XIIIFrom labour health, from health contentment springs:Contentment opes the source of every joy.He envied not, he never thought of, kings;Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy,That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy:Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd;He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy,For on his vows the blameless Phœbe smil'd,And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.XIVNo jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;Each season look'd delightful, as it past,To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd lifeThey never roam'd: secure beneath the stormWhich in Ambition's lofty land is rife,Where peace and love are canker'd by the wormOf pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.XVThe wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold,Was all the offspring of this humble pair;His birth no oracle or seer foretold;No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,Nor aught that might a strange event declare.You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;The parent's transport, and the parent's care;The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.XVIAnd yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy,Deep thought oft seem'd 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 laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad:Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.XVIIBut why should I his childish feats display?Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous frayOf squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head,Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd streamTo deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,There would he wander wild, till Phœbus' beam,Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.XVIIITh' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleedTo work the woe of any living thing,By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling;These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield:He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field;And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.XIXLo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, rovesBeneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.Would Edwin this majestic scene resignFor aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.XXAnd oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn:Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn,Where twilight loves to linger for a while;And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,And villager abroad at early toil.But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.XXIAnd oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,When all in mist the world below was lost.What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tostIn billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!XXIIIn 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 sereneThe southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.32Even sad vicissitude amus'd 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 wish'd not to control.XXIII"O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!"(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!Why do the birds, that song and rapture broughtTo all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.XXIV"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd!Ah! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish poolHave all the solitary vale imbrown'd;Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray:And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful swayUproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.XXV"Yet such the destiny of all on Earth:So flourishes and fades majestic Man.Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan.O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy primeNor lessen of his life the little span!Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.XXVI"And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn:But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed?Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.XXVII"Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?Is it for this fair Virtue oft must striveWith disappointment, penury, and pain?No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arriveAnd man's majestic beauty bloom again,Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."XXVIIIThis truth sublime his simple sire had taught.In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought,Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue."Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view,Be man's peculiar work his sole delight."And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschewFalsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might.XXIX"And, from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,O never, never turn away thine ear!Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!To others do (the law is not severe)What to thyself thou wishest to be done.Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,And friends, and native land; nor those alone;All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."XXXSee, in the rear of the warm sunny showerThe visionary boy from shelter fly;For now the storm of summer rain is o'er,And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky,And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high,The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun!Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh,How vain the chace thine ardour has begun!'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run.XXXIYet could'st thou learn, that thus it fares with age,When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm,This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage,And disappointment of her sting disarm.But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm?Perish the lore that deadens young desire;Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm,Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire:Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire.XXXIIWhen the long-sounding curfew from afarLoaded with loud lament the lonely gale,Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,Lingering and listening, wander'd 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 silenc'd by the owl's terrific song,Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along.XXXIIIOr, when the setting Moon, in crimson dy'd,Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep,To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep;And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleepA vision brought to his entranced sight.And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creepShrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night.XXXIVAnon in view a portal's blazon'd archArose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;And forth an host of little warriors march,Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,And green their helms, and green their silk attire;And here and there, right venerably old,The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire,And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.XXXVWith merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;The little warriors doff the targe and spear,And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glanceRapid along: with many-colour'd raysOf tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.XXXVIThe dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day,Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill,Fell chanticleer! who oft hast reft awayMy fancied good, and brought substantial ill!O to thy cursed scream, discordant still,Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear;Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill,Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear,And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear!XXXVIIForbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line.Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so.For how should he at wicked chance repine,Who feels from every change amusement flow!Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,As on he wanders through the scenes of morn,Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.XXXVIIIBut who the melodies of morn can tell?The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;The pipe of early shepherd dim descriedIn the lone valley; echoing far and wideThe clamorous horn along the cliffs above;The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.XXXIXThe cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.XLO Nature, how in every charm supreme!Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!O for the voice and fire of seraphim,To sing thy glories with devotion due!Blest be the day I 'scap'd the wrangling crew,From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;And held high converse with the godlike few,Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye,Teach beauty, virtue, truth and love, and melody.XLIHence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind,Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind,Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane,And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slimeFirst gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign(Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,)With vengeance to pursue you sacrilegious crime.XLIIBut hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,For well I know wherever ye reside,There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide.XLIIIAh me! neglected on the lonesome plain,As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,Save when against the winter's drenching rain,And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart,Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.XLIVVarious and strange was the long-winded tale;And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd;Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,33Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.XLVBut when to horror his amazement rose,A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.O cruel! will no pang of pity pierceThat heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone?For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,To latest times shall tender souls bemoanThose hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.XLVIBehold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,34The babes now famish'd lay them down to die;Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,Folded in one another's arms they lie;Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry;"For from the town the man returns no more."But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.XLVIIA stifled smile of stern vindictive joyBrighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear,"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,And innocence thus die by doom severe?"O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel:Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel;Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.XLVIIINor be thy generous indignation check'd,Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,This soften and refine the soul for heaven.But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has drivenTo censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.XLIXShall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,Exclaim that nature hastens to decay,If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,If but a momentary shower descend!Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,Which bade the series of events extendWide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end!LOne part, one little part, we dimly scanThro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream;Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,If but that little part incongruous seem.Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.O then renounce that impious self-esteem,That aims to trace the secrets of the skies!For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.LIThus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years.For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soarOn Fancy's wing above this vale of tears;Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, poreThrough microscope of metaphysic lore:And much they grope for Truth, but never hit.For why? Their powers inadequate before,This idle art makes more and more unfit;Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.LIINor was this ancient Dame a foe to mirth.Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint deviceOft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth;Whom levity or spleen could ne'er enticeTo purchase chat or laughter at the priceOf decency. Nor let it faith exceed,That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.Ah! had they been of court or city breed,Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.LIIIOft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave,He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to viewThe cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic waveHigh-towering, sail along th' horizon blue:Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new,Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,More wildly great than ever pencil drew,Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.LIVThence musing onward to the sounding shore,The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roarOf the wide-weltering waves. In black arrayWhen sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day,Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,Along the trembling wilderness to stray,What time the lightning's fierce career began,And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.LVResponsive to the sprightly pipe, when allIn sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly,To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd!Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy,When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melancholy!LVIIs there a heart that music cannot melt?Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn;Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports feltOf solitude and melancholy born?He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.LVIIFor Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;Song was his favourite and first pursuit.The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute:Of elegance as yet he took no care;For this of time and culture is the fruit;And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare:As in some future verse I purpose to declare.LVIIIMeanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,By chance, or search was offered to his view,He scann'd with curious and romantic eye.Whate'er of lore tradition could supplyFrom gothic tale, or song, or fable old,Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry.At last, though long by penury control'd,And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.LIXThus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,For many a long month lost in snow profound,When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,And in their northern cave the storms are bound;From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo,The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.35LXHere pause, my gothic lyre, a little while.The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.But on this verse if Montagu should smile,New strains ere long shall animate thy frame.And her applause to me is more than fame;For still with truth accords her taste refined.At lucre or renown let others aim,I only wish to please the gentle mind,Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind.