“AHAB, in four Cantos. BY S. R. JACKSON.”
Mr. Jackson, the author of several poems, whose merits he deems to have
been disregarded, puts forth “Ahab,” with renewed hope, and a
_remarkable_ address. He says--
“Reader, hast thou not seen a solitary buoy floating on the vast ocean?
the waves dash against it, and the broad keel of the vessel sweeps over
and presses it down, yet it rises again to the surface, prepared for
every assault--I am like that buoy. Thrice have I appeared before you,
thrice have the waves of neglect passed over me, and once more I rise, a
candidate for your good opinion. My wish is not merely to succeed, but
to merit success. _Palmam qui meruit ferat_, was the motto of one who
will never be forgotten, and I hope to quote it without seeming to be
presumptuous. I am told by some who are deemed competent judges, that I
am deserving of encouragement, and I here solicit it.
“During the printing of this work, one has criticised a rough rhyme,
another cried--‘Ha! what, you turned poet?’ and giving his head a
significant shake, said, ‘better mind Cocker.’ ‘So I would,’ I replied,
‘but Cocker won’t mind me.’ In all the various changes of my life the
Muse has not deserted me: beloved ones have vanished--friends have
deceived--but she has remained faithful. One critic has advised this
addition, another that curtailment; but remembering the story of the old
man and the boy, and the ass, I plod on: not that I am indifferent to
opinion--far from it; but there _are_ persons whose advice one cannot
take--who find fault merely for the sake of talking, and impale an
author from mere spleen.
“The poem now submitted to your notice is founded on the 21st and 22d
chapters in the First Book of Kings: in it I have endeavoured to show,
that crime always brings its own punishment; that whenever we do wrong,
an inward monitor reminds us of it: and have sought to revive in the
spirits of Englishmen that patriotic feeling which is daily becoming
more dormant.
“At this season,[126] when the leaves are falling fast, booksellers, as
well as trees, get cold-hearted--they will not purchase; nor can I blame
them, for if the tide of public opinion sets in against poetry, they
would be wrong to buy what they cannot sell. Yet they might, some of
them at least, treat an author more respectfully; they might _look_ at
his work, it would not take them a long time to do so; and they could
then tell if it would suit them or not. Unfortunately, a manuscript need
but be in verse, and it will be worth nothing. I fancy the booksellers
are like the horse in the team, they have carried the poet’s bells so
long that they have become weary of the jingle. Be this as it may, I
have tried, and could not get a purchaser. It was true I had published
before, but my productions came out unaided, and remained unnoticed. I
had no patron’s name to herald mine. I sent copies to the Reviews, but,
with the exception of the Literary Chronicle and Gentleman’s Magazine,
they were unnoticed. The doors to publicity being thus closed against
me, what could I do, but fail, as better bards have done before me----”
There is an affecting claim in the versified conclusion of the preface.
“’Tis done! the work of many a pensive hour
Is o’er: the fruit is gather’d from the tree,
Warm’d by care’s sun, and by affliction’s shower
Water’d and ripen’d in obscurity.
Few hopes have I that it may welcome be;
Yet do I not give way to black despair;
Small barks have liv’d through many a stormy sea,
Small birds wing’d far their way through boundless air
And joy’s sweet rose tow’rd o’er the weeds of envious care.
“With these feelings I submit my poem to notice, and but request such
patronage as it may deserve.”
The following invocation, which commences the poem, will arrest
attention.
“God! whom my fathers worshipp’d, God of all,
From mid thy throne of brightness hear my call:
And though unworthiest I of earthly things,
To wake the harp of David’s silent strings;
Though, following not the light which in my path
Shone bright to guide me, I have brav’d thy wrath,
And walk’d with other men in darkness, yet,
If penitent, my heart its sins regret--
If, bending lowly at thy shrine, I crave
Thy aid to guide my bark o’er life’s rough wave,
Till all the shoals of error safely past,
In truth’s calm haven I repose at last:
O, let that sweet, that unextinguish’d beam
Which fondly came to wake me from my dream,
Again appear my wand’ring steps to guide,
Lest my soul sink, and perish in its pride.
I ask not, all-mysterious as Thou art,
To see Thee, but to feel Thee in my heart;
Unfetter’d by the various rules and forms
That bound the actions of earth’s subtle worms,
From worldly arts and prejudices free,
To know that Thou art God, and worship Thee.
And, whether on the tempest’s sweeping wing
Thou comest, or the breath that wakes the spring,
If in the thunder’s roar thy voice I hear,
Or the loud blast that marks the closing year;
Or in the gentle music of the breeze,
Stirring the leaves upon the forest trees;
Still let me feel thy presence, let me bear
In mind that Thou art with me every where.
And oh! since inspiration comes from Thee
To mortal mind, like rain unto the tree,
Bidding it flourish and put forth its fruit,
So bid my soul, whose voice has long been mute,
Awaken; give me words of fire to sing
The deeds and fall of Israel’s hapless king.”
Perhaps the reader may be further propitiated in the author’s behalf by
the
“DEDICATION.”
“TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER BENSON, M. A. Prebendary of Worcester, and
Rector of St. Giles in the Fields.
“Sir--Being wholly unused to patronage, I know not how to invoke it, but
by plainly saying, that I wish for protection to whatever may be deemed
worthy of regard in the following pages.
“I respectfully dedicate the poem to you, sir, from a deep sense of the
esteem wherein you are held; and, I openly confess, with considerable
anxiety that you may approve, and that your name may sanction and assist
my efforts.
“In strictness perhaps I ought to have solicited your permission to do
this; but, with the wishes I have expressed, and conscious of the
rectitude of my motives, I persuade myself that you will see I could not
afford to hazard your declining, from private feelings, a public
testimony of unfeigned respect, from a humble and unknown individual.
“I am, sir, your most obedient
And sincerely devoted servant,
“SAMUEL RICHARD JACKSON.
“_Sept. 29, 1826._”
Mr. Jackson has other offspring besides the productions of his muse, and
their infant voices may be imagined to proclaim in plain prose that the
present volume, and it is a volume--a hundred pages in full sized
octavo--is published for the author, by Messrs. Sherwood and Co. “price
4s. in boards.”--Kind-hearted readers will take the hint.
[126] Michaelmas, 1826.
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