ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Anonymous, "On the ingenious Poet Mr. Cowley. A Pyndarique Ode" Naps upon Parnassus (1658) sigs E2-E3.
1662 ca.: Katherine Philips
1667: Sir John Denham
1667 ca.: Roger Boyle
1670: Richard Flecknoe
1674: Thomas Rymer
1682: John Sheffield
1683: John Dryden
1687: Philip Ayres
1693: Rev. Samuel Wesley
1694: Joseph Addison
1697: John Dryden
1697: Daniel Baker
1700: Samuel Cobb
1712: Bezaleel Morrice
1712: Leonard Welsted
1720: Giles Jacob
1721: Judith Cowper Madan
1722: T. B.
1726: Aaron Hill
1728: James Ralph
1737: Alexander Pope
1754: Thomas Francklin
1757: Rev. John Free
1757: Bp. Richard Hurd
1763: Rev. William Thompson
1764: David Erskine Baker
1769: Daniel Hayes
1772: Bp. Richard Hurd
1776: James Beattie
1776: John Nichols
1782: William Hayley
1782: Rev. Joseph Warton
1789: William Belsham
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1795 ca.: Bp. Richard Hurd
1797: Charles Lamb
1802: George Dyer
1802: Joseph Dennie
1802: B. T.
1803: George Dyer
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1817: John Taylor Esq.
1819: Thomas Campbell
1819: William Hazlitt
1824: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1826: Richard Ryan
1834: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1836: Hartley Coleridge
1836: Richard Cattermole
1837: William Howitt
1837: Henry Hallam
1842: C. H. Timperley
1852: Mary Russell Mitford
1860: George Gilfillan
1880: Thomas Humphry Ward
1882: Epes Sargent
I can't now comprehend unless I'me taught
To write a strein above my self, aloft:
If that my Muse would honour him with a Song,
It must first learn to chat in th' Hebrew tongue.
Stand off thou Poetaster from the Press,
Who pygni'st Martyrs with thy dwarf-like verse
Whose white, long bearded flame of Zeal aspires,
To wrack their Ashes, more than did their Fires.
Confine not this our Poet to thy Black, durty Ink,
Lest thou bespot his name, and make it stink.
Hand then at Quill that's plundred in the sight
Of Mercury, whil'st he beat's by flight.
He muster'd up the Forces of his Armes,
Ordred each Wing for to escape the charms
Of the easie conquer'd Air, and shall not I
Alurum now the Muses Chevalry?
And beat up the Head-quarters of my strength,
Whose power drawn out, may help my soul at length,
To finde his Ambuscado'd Verses out,
Which on all sides besiege me round about.
I here condemn plain Seneca's crumpled style,
And Sentence, Cicero's longer by a mile.
For neither span'd him; none can speak his worth
More fully, then a stiff-neck't Holder forth,
Who draws his mouth at large, spins out his lungs
And ne're is tir'd with tuning Holy Songs,
Whose surly Ela's note he far exceeds,
For body'd Angels cloth'd in Ladies weeds
Can only throat him, whose virtues cannot brook
A spirit's knowledge through a single look.
That vaste Triumvirate's Poetique hand
Which dig'd graves for lost sense in words, is damn'd
By Him, and must at last grant His the better,
Who buries Mysteries in every letter.
Antiquity is fettred in their Verses:
Long hangers on each find the Printer Presse's,
Rais'd on the Publique Faith, for the defence
Of their benighted, and most doubtfull sense:
That jolly Trine if any Eye will round,
A flock of Books in sheep's clothes may be found:
But his Muse mounts enrob'd in Noon-day glory,
Candied with light, as if his head were hoary.
First dipped in those sacred streams with thee,
And when grown up coated with purity.
His Fancy in Black-art mourning owns the name
Of a dark lanthorn'd Dungeon to a flame.
Whilest I the letters, and the clear sense finde;
My weaker Eye can't reach the Soul behinde.
So that in reverence my head is bow'd,
Thinking of Juno clothed in a Cloud.
Like that dunc't wit, how does my willing hand
Scribble that out, which I can't understand!
For feigned ill Husbandry let none thee mock,
Who ever heard that Poets e're did smock
Their naked coin in Napkins: frank they be
Both of their Jests, and of their Money free.
That Ethnick Priest which did attire his Pelf
With th' same Trunk-breeches which he wore himself,
Whilst in his wooden Pulpit stuff apparel'd
Did seem a Hogshead in an Hogshead barrel'd:
Had he but known the Grecian would disjoynt,
And burst in two stout Vulcan's Iron point,
Which tied th' luxurious placquet of his Chest
In th' Italian Mode, that deifi'd it might rest
Coop't up t' one master: that subtle Cub
Had strait unbutton'd the Codpiss of his Tub,
And brok up his soon cooled Zeal in haste
To save his Gold from running out in th' waste,
I dare not Poet christen him by birth,
Who Atheist like ador'd that guilded Earth;
This onely common I hold fast with thee,
I scorn such dirt, and worship Poetrie.
A Knocking Poet sure, who joyntly beds
Nine lusty Girles, which bow their Maiden-heads
To Him, and straightway left the Sacred Hill
For to attend upon his sainted Quill,
Could my weak fluttring soul to heaven flie,
Through the shuffled Clouds of Maskt Divinity,
Begot by him; there then my Muses taper
Breathing its last, would from its socket caper;
To see a vision of him in a sound,
Would in deep contemplation my soul drown'd.