POEMS.

THE MINSTREL:

OR,

THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

PREFACE.

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.

AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has 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 pin'd alone,

Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!

And 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 appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,

Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of Fame;

Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim
Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

The rolls of Fame I will not now explore;
Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,
How forth the Minstrel fared 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 hung
His harp, the sole companion of his way,
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.
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
Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature 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 gray linnets carol from the hill.
O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,

[will.

But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they Liberal, 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

Then grieve not thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire :

Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse
Th' 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 groveling crew for ever left behind.
Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul
In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,

On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,

Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen;