The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius. James Beattie

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      Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musæ,

      Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore,

      Accipiant. —

      Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

      The steep, where Fame’s proud temple shines afar!

      Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

      Has felt the influence of malignant star,

      And waged with Fortune an eternal war!

      Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy’s frown,

      And Poverty’s unconquerable bar,

      In life’s low vale remote has pined alone,

      Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!

      And yet, the languor of inglorious days

      Not equally oppressive is to all.

      Him, who ne’er listened to the voice of praise,

      The silence of neglect can ne’er appal.

      There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition’s call,

      Would shrink to hear th’ obstreperous trump of Fame;

      Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

      Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim

      Had He, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

      This sapient age disclaims all classic lore;

      Else I should here, in cunning phrase, display,

      How forth The Minstrel fared in days of yore,

      Right glad of heart, though homely in array;

      His waving locks and beard all hoary grey:

      And, from his bending shoulder, decent hung

      His harp, the sole companion of his way,

      Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:

      And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.

      Fret not yourselves, ye silken sons of pride,

      That a poor Wanderer should inspire my strain.

      The Muses fortune’s fickle smile deride,

      Nor ever bow the knee in Mammon’s fane;

      For their delights are with the village-train,

      Whom Nature’s laws engage, and Nature’s charms:

      They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain;

      The parasite their influence never warms,

      Nor him whose sordid soul the love of wealth alarms.

      Though richest hues the peacock’s plumes adorn,

      Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.

      Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,

      While warbling larks on russet pinions float;

      Or seek, at noon, the woodland scene remote,

      Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.

      O let them ne’er, with artificial note,

      To please a tyrant, strain the little bill!

      But sing what heaven inspires, and wander where they will.

      Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature’s hand;

      Nor was perfection made for man below.

      Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned,

      Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.

      With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow,

      If bleak and barren Scotia’s hills arise;

      There, plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;

      Here, peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,

      And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.

      Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse

      Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;

      Nor blame the partial fates, if they refuse

      The imperial banquet, and the rich attire.

      Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.

      Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?

      No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,

      To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned;

      Ambition’s grovelling crew for ever left behind.

      Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul

      In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,

      On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,

      Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen;

      Fain to implore the aid of Flattery’s screen,

      Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,

      (The mansion, then, no more of joy serene)

      Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide,

      And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?

      O, how canst thou renounce the boundless store

      Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!

      The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,

      The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;

      All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

      And all that echoes to the song of even,

      All that the mountain’s sheltering bosom shields,

      And all the dread magnificence of heaven,

      O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!

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