ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Bryan Waller Procter
Ellen Janet, "To the Author of the Poem Marcian Colonna" New Monthly Magazine 14 (October 1820) 444.
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
1820: Bryan Waller Procter
Hail! star of promise, hail! whose radiance bright
Shines 'mongst the brightest with the loveliest light:
Fain would this weak and tributary lay
That homage to thy wondrous genius pay,
Which sure from sterner hearts thy verse would steal;
For where's the heart but must its influence feel?
When chilling fear reproves the vain desire,
And whispers, still be silent and admire,
Then grateful memory brings to mind the hours
Enliven'd, cheer'd, instructed by thy powers,
And bids me, tho' unknown, undaunted raise
The voice of warm, sincere and ardent praise.
Sacred and dear for aye that hour shall be
Held in the annals of sweet poesy,
When on the ear of favour'd England first
The magic music of thy numbers burst:
With sound like that half mournful, and half gay,
Some meek brook murmurs as it rolls away
Beneath the placid moon-beam, who the while
Illumes its surface with her silver smile.
Still tho' the beauty of thy early song
Gave promise fair of nobler themes ere long,
Yet none nor deem'd, nor hoped, so soon you'd twine
A lay so grand, so tender and divine,
That it alone would wreath thy brows with fame,
And with our proudest bards enroll thy name.
Go on, and with a genuine poet's fire
Still sweep the chords of thy enchanted lyre:
And could I tell what chord thou strik'st the best,
I'd bid thee touch it oft'ner than the rest;
But it were easier, when on high we view
The rainbow's painted arch, to say what hue
Looks to the eye most lovely, than to tell
When most you shine, and where you most excel.
London, Sept. 1820.