ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Bryan Waller Procter
Walter Savage Landor
, "To Barry Cornwall" Works of Walter Savage Landor (1846) 2:671.
Bryan Waller Procter:
1819: Leigh Hunt
1820: Charles Lamb
1820: John Keats
1820: Mary Russell Mitford
1820 ca.: Alaric Alexander Watts
1820: Ellen Janet
1820: Leigh Hunt
1820: Thomas Love Peacock
1820: Francis Jeffrey
1821: Lord Byron
1821: William Wordsworth
1822: James Harley
1823 ca.: Countess of Blessington
1823: Alaric Alexander Watts
1824: William Hazlitt
1824: A. B.
1825: John Wilson
1826: Sumner Lincoln Fairfield
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1833: Allan Cunningham
1839: Thomas Hood
1839: J. F. O.
1846: Walter Savage Landor
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1854: Nathaniel Hawthorne
1854: Robert Shelton Mackenzie
1866: Henry Crabb Robinson
1872: James T. Fields
1880: Edmund Gosse
1882: Epes Sargent
1901: Rowland E. Prothero
Walter Savage Landor:
1795: Rev. Samuel Croxall
1795: Rev. Henry Kett
1795: Rev. Joseph Warton
1805: Rev. William Herbert
1805: James Thomson
1809: Sir William Jones
1810: Margaret Holford
1811: Michael Drayton
1811: Anna Seward
1828: Robert Burns
1828: Lord Byron
1828: John Keats
1828: Percy Bysshe Shelley
1834: Robert Southey
1837: William Blake
1838: Robert Southey
1843: William Hazlitt
1843: William Wordsworth
1845: Chandos Leigh
1846: Thomas Babington Macaulay
1846: Bryan Waller Procter
1846: William Wordsworth
1850: Sir Walter Scott
1853: Ebenezer Elliott
1854: Mary Russell Mitford
1855: Sir Richard Steele
1856: William Gifford
1857: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
1858: Percy Bysshe Shelley
1858: Rev. Jonathan Swift
1860: Rev. Henry Francis Cary
1860 ca.: Dr. Henry Harington
Barry! your spirit long ago
Has haunted me; at last I know
The heart it sprung from: one more sound
Ne'er rested on poetic ground.
But, Barry Cornwall! by what right
Wring you my breast and dim my sight,
And make me wish at every touch
My poor old hand could do as much?
No other in these later times
Has bound me in so potent rhymes.
I have observed the curious dress
And jewelry of brave Queen Bess,
But always found some o'ercharged thing,
Some flaw in even the brightest ring,
Admiring in her men of war,
A rich but too argute guitar.
Our foremost now are more prolix,
And scrape with three-fell fiddlesticks,
And, whether bound for griefs or smiles,
Are slow to turn as crocodiles.
Once, every court and country bevy
Chose the gallant of loins less heavy,
And would have laid upon the shelf
Him who could but talk of himself.
Reason is stout, but even Reason
May walk too long in Rhyme's hot season.
I have heard many folks aver
They have caught horrid colds with her.
Imagination's paper kite,
Unless the string is held in tight,
Whatever fits and starts it takes,
Soon bounces on the ground, and breaks.
You, placed afar from each extreme,
Nor dully drowse nor wildly dream,
But, ever flowing with good-humour,
Are bright as spring and warm as summer.
Mid your Penates not a word
Of scorn or ill-report is heard;
Nor is there any need to pull
A sheaf or truss from cart too full,
Lest it overload the horse, no doubt,
Or clog the road with falling out.
We, who surround a common table,
And imitate the fashionable,
Wear each two eye-glasses: this lens
Shows us our faults, that other men's.
We do not care how dim may be
This by whose aid our own we see,
But, ever anxiously alert
That all may have their whole desert,
We would melt down the stars and sun
In our heart's furnace, to make one
Thro' which the enlighten'd world may spy
A mote upon a brother's eye.