árdour of enthusiasm I formerly deemed no literary toil too great; and was happy as long as I could have books to think and write upon.. My ardour is gone; I only wish to wander in the woods, or dig in the fields without a purpose; and then sleep when I am fatigued; and thus while away the remnant of my life in an innocent and peaceful obscurity. If I could but pass my future time in this way in the beloved shades of my nativity, I should be happy. Or I may exclaim with Cowper; "O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is fill'd. It is most melancholy, that literary pursuits, of all others, attach least good-will among the common members of society. The hours of the studious are spent alone; they cannot descend to the arts of intrigue and solicitation; they cannot lose their time in those petty offices, by which interest is conciliated, and a contemptible importance obtained; they cannot be foremost in the circles of country-squires; and obstreperous at Quarter-sessions, and Justice-meetings; they cannot keep up the honour of a family by their punctuality in Lunar Visitations, nor get the character of extreme good-breeding by a cold and prudental reserve; by never pressing an unpopular argument, venting an unfashionable feeling, or speaking their real opinions with frankness and honesty. And is no one to succeed in life, who cannot conform to these things? Can his interest be preserved no longer than while he is a slave to it? Are there no other principles to direct the justice or kindness of the world than those of flattery, and a narrow and interested individual preference? He, whose, enlarged ambition is employed in informing or amusing the public, ought in return to obtain the public esteem and protection. He should not be abandoned, neglected, supplanted, and trod upon! I have been interrupted in this Preface, at a point when I had not an hour to spare, by the receipt of Mr. Southey's two volumes of "Remains of Henry Kirke White," and they who know me will know that I could not proceed a step till I had read them through! In the highly interesting and admirable Memoir, which accompanies this publication, there is a passage which, if it be well-founded, puts much of what I have already written to shame. "It has been too much the custom," says Mr. Southey, "to complain that genius is neglected, and to blame the public, when the public is not in fault. They who are thus lamented as the victims of genius, have been in almost every instance, the victims of their own vices; while genius has been made, like charity, to cover a multitude of sins, and to excuse that which in reality it aggravates. In this age, and in this country, whoever deserves encouragement, is sooner or later sure to receive it." But how often is fame posthumous? Nay, was it not too much so with Henry Kirke White? I will confess, for one, that neither his reputation, nor his merits were known to me till his death! And is it sufficient, "To deck the cold insensate grave with bays?" I embrace this late opportunity of expressing my veneration of his almost unexampled prematurity of genius; and his numerous excellencies of head and heart. There are, I think, among these Remains a few of the most exquisite pieces* in the whole body of English poetry. Conjoined with an easy and flowing fancy, they possess the charm of a peculiar moral delicacy, often conveyed in a happy and inimitable simplicity of language. But I trust I shall hereafter have an opportunity at a moment of more leisure, and in a more proper place, to speak more fully on this subject. I earnestly hope that Mr. Southey's remarks may be just; and that the opinions, with which I am impressed, may be nothing more than the gloomy colours of a sick and over-wearied mind. For me, I expect but little; I am aware that I have no claim but for my industry; or rather for the recollection of the industry, which I once had (for it is now, alas! departed)—and for my unfeigned love of the Muse! In my days of youthful hope, I aspired to Three of the poems, among which is one of the very best Sonnets in the language, were, by Mr. Southey's kindness, inserted in a former volume of the CENSURA LITERARIA. loftier distinctions; I did not then bound my wishes to the character of an humble suitor; I had the presumption to expect I should share the Muse's favours. It is past; and I must be content, if I find a niche among the compilers of dull catalogues, and the copiers of obsolete verses, which have been forgotten, because they did not deserve preservation. Dec. 27, 1807. SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES. FOUR PREFATORY SONNETS ΤΟ VOLUME VII. OF THE FIRST EDITION. I. A voice has told me that I toil in vain; That day to day, and year to year to lose Tho' with each flower of time and fashion crown'd, Yet to one dull unchanging path confin'd, One form of phrase, one track of thought must bound! Be mine to toil, tho' Scorn those toils deface, Thro' all the varying realms of Time and Space! II. Tho' no kind Muse has smil'd upon my birth; Nor For those empyreal scenes, where is no night, The pallid cheek, and the enfeebled frame?" "The struggle's mine," I cry in virtue bold, "For wreaths thou canst not give, nor canst withhold!" April 22, 1808. VOL. I. |