"Thee, Bard morose, / Churlish amid thy fancy's golden stores, / Thee will I teach, censorious as thou art, / What is not Virtue."
— Seward, Anna (1742-1809)
Author
Place of Publication
Edinburgh
Publisher
Printed by James Ballantyne and Co. for John Ballantyne and Co. London. Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme
Date
w. 1788, 1810
Metaphor
"Thee, Bard morose, / Churlish amid thy fancy's golden stores, / Thee will I teach, censorious as thou art, / What is not Virtue."
Metaphor in Context
Nor only on the wreaths for Genius twined
Fall the deep shadows of this Cynic spleen;
Mark how ungenerous the beauteous strain
Closes, that sings the desolate of heart,
Forlorn Omai, on his native hills
Wandering, with eyes that search the watry waste
"For sight of ship from England!"--why pollute
Thy lovely requiem to his vanish'd joys
With heartless taunt on the illustrious band
That led him hither, and restor'd him back,
At his kind, natural wish, that nobly sprung
From patriot love, too probably, alas!
Requited ill, and pregnant with the pangs
Of fruitless, stung regret. Was it for gain
That those illustrious Chiefs, with daring hand,
Rais'd the pale curtains of the southern Pole?--
Loth as thou art to credit human worth,
O! Bard unjust! thou know'st that not for gold,
Gems, or false glory, they explor'd and brav'd
Climes dangerous and unknown; but to diffuse
The blessings mild of cultivated life
Amid the perilous and lonely haunts
Of the lugubrious savage, straying slow,
Silent and comfortless, o'er pathless wastes
Torrid, or frore. Thus on the worth, that rose
Its nation's honour, thy immortal muse,
Which should record it to succeeding times,
For the bright, fostering dews of just applause,
Sheds cankerous scorn. And was it not enough
To impute to every wild and idle weed
Of human frailty, such envenom'd juice
As slowly circles through thy latent veins,
Death-giving hemlock?--Was not that enough,
Without enlisting a much favour'd muse
Against Just Praise, the spur of great designs,
And O! twice blest, like Mercy? Was thy lyre
Thus highly gifted for such warfare rude?
For notes, O! how unlike the strains that stole
From the sweet harp of Jesse's pitying son,
Before whose kind, assuasive, melting tones
Flew the despair which spread her raven-wing
O'er the sunk spirit of Saul!--Thee, Bard morose,
Churlish amid thy fancy's golden stores,
Thee will I teach, censorious as thou art,
What is not Virtue. Listen to my verse;
Confute it if thou canst;--if not, admit
The force of Truth, though rushing from a lyre
Less richly strung, less solemn than thine own!
Fall the deep shadows of this Cynic spleen;
Mark how ungenerous the beauteous strain
Closes, that sings the desolate of heart,
Forlorn Omai, on his native hills
Wandering, with eyes that search the watry waste
"For sight of ship from England!"--why pollute
Thy lovely requiem to his vanish'd joys
With heartless taunt on the illustrious band
That led him hither, and restor'd him back,
At his kind, natural wish, that nobly sprung
From patriot love, too probably, alas!
Requited ill, and pregnant with the pangs
Of fruitless, stung regret. Was it for gain
That those illustrious Chiefs, with daring hand,
Rais'd the pale curtains of the southern Pole?--
Loth as thou art to credit human worth,
O! Bard unjust! thou know'st that not for gold,
Gems, or false glory, they explor'd and brav'd
Climes dangerous and unknown; but to diffuse
The blessings mild of cultivated life
Amid the perilous and lonely haunts
Of the lugubrious savage, straying slow,
Silent and comfortless, o'er pathless wastes
Torrid, or frore. Thus on the worth, that rose
Its nation's honour, thy immortal muse,
Which should record it to succeeding times,
For the bright, fostering dews of just applause,
Sheds cankerous scorn. And was it not enough
To impute to every wild and idle weed
Of human frailty, such envenom'd juice
As slowly circles through thy latent veins,
Death-giving hemlock?--Was not that enough,
Without enlisting a much favour'd muse
Against Just Praise, the spur of great designs,
And O! twice blest, like Mercy? Was thy lyre
Thus highly gifted for such warfare rude?
For notes, O! how unlike the strains that stole
From the sweet harp of Jesse's pitying son,
Before whose kind, assuasive, melting tones
Flew the despair which spread her raven-wing
O'er the sunk spirit of Saul!--Thee, Bard morose,
Churlish amid thy fancy's golden stores,
Thee will I teach, censorious as thou art,
What is not Virtue. Listen to my verse;
Confute it if thou canst;--if not, admit
The force of Truth, though rushing from a lyre
Less richly strung, less solemn than thine own!
Categories
Provenance
Searching in "fancy" and "gold" in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Text from The Poetical Works of Anna Seward; with Extracts from Her Literary Correspondence. ed. Walter Scott. 3 vols. (Edinburgh: Printed by James Ballantyne and Co. for John Ballantyne and Co., 1810).
Theme
Lockean Philosophy
Date of Entry
06/01/2005
