Dedication

Bob Southey! You’re a poet, poet laureate,

     And representative of all the race.

Although ‘tis true that you turned out a Tory at

     Last, yours has lately been a common case.

And now my epic renegade, what are ye at

     With all the lakers, in and out of place?

A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

Like ‘four and twenty blackbirds in a pye’,

‘Which pye being opened they began to sing’

     (This old song and new simile holds good),

‘A dainty dish to set before the King’

     Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.

And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,

     But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,

Explaining metaphysics to the nation

I wish he would explain his explanation.

You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,

     At being disappointed in your wish

To supersede all warblers here below,

     And be the only blackbird in the dish.

And then you overstrain yourself, or so,

     And tumble downward like the flying fish

Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,

And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.

And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion

     (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)

Has given a sample from the vasty version

     Of his new system to perplex the sages

’Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,

     And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,

And he who understands it would be able

To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion

     From better company, have kept your own

At Keswick, and through still continued fusion

     Of one another’s minds at last have grown

To deem, as a most logical conclusion,

     That poesy has wreaths for you alone.

There is a narrowness in such a notion,

Which makes me wish you’d change your lakes for ocean.

I would not imitate the petty thought,

     Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,

For all the glory your conversion brought,

     Since gold alone should not have been its price.

You have your salary; was’t for that you wrought?

     And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.

You’re shabby fellows—true—but poets still

And duly seated on the immortal hill.

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,

     Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,

     And for the fame you would engross below,

The field is universal and allows

     Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try

’Gainst you the question with posterity.

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,

     Contend not with you on the winged steed,

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,

     The fame you envy and the skill you need.

And recollect a poet nothing loses

     In giving to his brethren their full meed

Of merit, and complaint of present days

Is not the certain path to future praise.

He that reserves his laurels for posterity

     (Who does not often claim the bright reversion)

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he

     Being only injured by his own assertion.

And although here and there some glorious rarity

     Arise like Titan from the sea’s immersion,

The major part of such appellants go

To—God knows where—for no one else can know.

If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,

     Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,

If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs

     And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,

He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,

     Nor turn his very talent to a crime.

He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,

But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

Think’st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise

     Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,

     Or be alive again—again all hoar

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes

     And heartless daughters—worn and pale and poor,

Would be adore a sultan? He obey

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!

     Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin’s gore,

And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,

      Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,

The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,

     With just enough of talent and no more,

To lengthen fetters by another fixed

And offer poison long already mixed.

An orator of such set trash of phrase,

     Ineffably, legitimately vile,

That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,

     Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile.

Not even a sprightly blunder’s spark can blaze

     From that Ixion grindstone’s ceaseless toil,

That turns and turns to give the world a notion

Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,

     And botching, patching, leaving still behind

Something of which its masters are afraid,

     States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,

Conspiracy or congress to be made,

     Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,

With God and man’s abhorrence for its gains.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,

     Emasculated to the marrow, it

Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,

     Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,

Eutropius of its many masters, blind

     To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,

Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;

Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,

     For I will never feel them. Italy,

Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds

     Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o’er thee

Thy clanking chain and Erin’s yet green wounds

     Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.

Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,

And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate

     In honest simple verse this song to you.

And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,

     ’Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;

My politics as yet are all to educate.

     Apostasy’s so fashionable too,

To keep one creed’s a task grown quite Herculean.

Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?