Volume 2 / Part 1 — BARRY CORNWALL.{1}
Reading edition
Barry Cornwall is a poet, 'me saltem judice'; and in that sense of the term, in which I apply it to C. Lamb and W. Wordsworth. There are poems of great merit, the authors of which I should yet not feel impelled so to designate.
The faults of these poems are no less things of hope, than the beauties; both are just what they ought to be,—that is, now.
If B.C. be faithful to his genius, it in due time will warn him, that as poetry is the identity of all other knowledges, so a poet cannot be a great poet, but as being likewise inclusively an historian and naturalist, in the light, as well as the life, of philosophy: all other men's worlds are his chaos.
Hints 'obiter' are:—
not to permit delicacy and exquisiteness to seduce into effeminacy. Not to permit beauties by repetition to become mannerisms. To be jealous of fragmentary composition,—as epicurism of genius, and apple-pie made all of quinces. 'Item', that dramatic poetry must be poetry hid in thought and passion,—not thought or passion disguised in the dress of poetry. Lastly, to be economic and withholding in similies, figures, &c. They will all find their place, sooner or later, each as the luminary of a sphere of its own. There can be no galaxy in poetry, because it is language,—'ergo' processive,—'ergo' every the smallest star must be seen singly.
There are not five metrists in the kingdom, whose works are known by me, to whom I could have held myself allowed to have spoken so plainly. But B.C. is a man of genius, and it depends on himself—(competence protecting him from gnawing or distracting cares)—to become a rightful poet,—that is, a great man.
Oh! for such a man worldly prudence is transfigured into the highest spiritual duty! How generous is self-interest in him, whose true self is all that is good and hopeful in all ages, as far as the language of Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton shall become the mother-tongue!
A map of the road to Paradise, drawn in Purgatory, on the confines of Hell, by S.T.C. July 30, 1819.
{Footnote 1: Written in Mr. Lamb's copy of the 'Dramatic Scenes'. Ed.}
THE PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE CROSS. {1}
O! That it were as it was wont to be, When thy old friends of fire, all full of thee, Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorius chace To persecutions; and against the face Of death and fiercest dangers durst with brave And sober pace march on to meet a grave! On their bold breast about the world they bore thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee, In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee, Where racks and torments strove in vain to reach thee! Powers of my soul, be proud, And speak aloud To the dear-bought nations this redeeming name, And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim New smiles to nature! May it be no wrong, Blest heavens! to you and your superior song, That we, dark sons of dust and sorrow, Awhile dare borrow The name of your delights and your desires, And fit it to so far inferior lyres!—Our lispings have their music too, Ye mighty orbs! as well as you; Nor yields the noblest nest Of warbling cherubs to the ear of love, A melody above The low fond murmurs from the loyal breast Of a poor panting turtle dove. We mortals too Have leave to do The same bright business, ye third heavens with you.
{Footnote 1: This poem was found in Mr. Coleridge's hand-writing on a sheet of paper with other passages undoubtedly of his own composition. There is something, however, in it which leads me to think it transcribed or translated from some other writer, though I have been unable from recollection or inquiry to ascertain the fact. It is published here, therefore, expressly under caution. Ed.}