When a youth, with a voracious appetite for books, an old lady, who
kindly supplied me with many, put one day into my hands Crabbe's
Borough. It was my first acquaintance with him, and it occasioned me
the most singular sensations imaginable. Intensely fond of poetry, I
had read the great bulk of our older writers, and was enthusiastic in
my admiration of the new ones who had appeared. The Pleasures of Hope,
of Campbell, the West Indies and World before the Flood, of
Montgomery, the first Metrical Romances of Scott, all had their due
appreciation. The calm dignity of Wordsworth and the blaze of Byron
had not yet fully appeared. Every thing, however, old or new, in
poetry, had a certain elevation of subject and style which seemed
absolutely necessary to give it the title of poetry. But here was a
poem by a country parson; the description of a sea-port town, so full
of real life, yet so homely and often prosaic, that its effect on me
was confounding. Why, it is not poetry, and yet how clever! Why, there
is certainly a resemblance to the style of Pope, yet what subjects,
what characters, what ordinary phraseology! The country parson,
certainly, is a great reader of Pope, but how unlike Pope's is the
music of the rhythm--if music there be! What an opening for a poem in
four-and-twenty Books!
"Describe the Borough--though our idle tribe
May love description, can we so describe,
That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,
And all that gives distinction to the place?
This can not be; yet moved by your request,
A part I paint--let fancy form the rest.
Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,
Require the pencil; they defy the pen.
Could he, who sung so well the Grecian Fleet,
So well have sung of Alley, Lane, or Street?
Can measured lines these various buildings show,
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,
And lengthen out my lays from door to door?"
No, good parson! how should you? I exclaimed to myself. You see the
absurdity of your subject, and yet you rush into it. He who sung of
the Greek Fleet certainly would never have thought of singing of
Alley, Lane, or Street! What a difference from
"Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!"