Colley Cibber (1671–1757)

My quest to read something by all of the British poets laureate was almost derailed by Tate, Eusden, and Cibber. Appointed more for political than literary reasons, if these three are remembered at all these days it's as the subjects of Alexander Pope's vicious satire, The Dunciad. After making my way through this selection of their writings I can see why they're mostly forgotten.

In his introduction, Peter Heaney gives a brief account of each poet, the times in which they wrote, and a short discussion of their works. He also provides some footnotes on obscure terms, historical events relating to the poems, and the occasional judgement on quality.

The best of the lot is probably Nahum Tate. Most of the selections are panegyrics on British monarchs and, while effusive in praise, do carry a note of hopefulness that the rulers will live up to the virtues he attributes to them. Tate did show some flair with "Panacea--A Poem on Tea," which features a wonderful canto in which the Olympian goddesses are competing to be made patron goddess of tea. Also worth mentioning is the scathing "On a deform’d Old Bawd, designing to have her Picture drawn":

I
Thy Picture drawn, foul Beldame, Thine!
What Frenzy haunts thy Mind
And drives Thee on this Vile Design,
T’ affront all Woman-Kind?

II
For while thy swarthy Cankard Face
Posterity shall view,
They’ll loath the fairest of the Race,
For sharing Sex with you.

III
To some forlorn Church-yard repair,
And haggard thou shalt see
The fiercest Goblin will not dare
To stand the Sight of thee.

IV
Those Ghosts that Strike with Pannick-Fear
The Breasts of stoutest Braves,
At thy Approach will disappear,
And burrough in their Graves.

V
Fix thy Effigies on the Shield
Of some bold Knight in Arms,
Twill aid him more to win the Field,
Than all his Lady’s Charms.

While Tate's panegyrics are fulsome, Laurence Eusden's are downright ass-kissing. He's also painfully long-winded:

An Ode for the Birthday, 1721: as it was sung before the King

Recitativo

When the great Julius on BRITANNIA’s Strand
First leap’d, He cry’d. Thou sweet, delightful Land!
‘Tis Caesar tells thee, He must thee command.
Brave Heroe! the pleas’d Legions shout around;
Brave Heroe! all the list’ning Clifts resound;
The Equal in no future Age shall rise;
One Caesar rules the Earth, One Jove the Skies!

Air

Vales of Pleasure are her Vales,
Peaceful smile her silent Dales.
Smoothly flow her crystal Floods,
Verdant rise her shady Woods.
Nor ler fam’d Olympus dare
With Albion’s Mountain to compare:
Tho’, big with fabl’d Gods, he shrouds
His lofty Head amid the Clouds.

Recitativo

Straight from the hallow’d Grove there sprung,
Wreath’d with an acorn’d Crown of Oak,
The ruiling Druid of the Throng,
And thus the hoary Prophet spoke,
“Caesar, wilt thou lend an ear?
“Thou, the boasted Pride of Rome!
“Truths ungrateful canst thou bear,
And not tremble at thy Doom?

Air

The Soldiers, with rash Fury fir’d
No Foresight from the seer desir’d;
Not Him, as sacred Priests, rever’d,
Nor all his threaten’d Dangers fear’d;
Swift had he felt a mangled Death
For his mistim’d, prophetic Breath.
But Caesar heard the whisper’d Ruin run
Thro’ all the Cohorts, e’er the Crime was done;
And with one awful, Roman Look,
Their impious Conspiration broke,
And silent, more than speaking, spoke;
Then greatly bad the daring Bard sing on.

Recitativo

“Will wild Ambition know no Bound?
With heav’d-up Hands the Druid cry’d.
“Thou, Caesar, now shin’st in thy Pride;
Thy Conquests, Warrior, are renown’d:
“Enough!--wouldst thou be deify’d?
“Proud Mortal, Know!--the fatal Ides shall come,
“When thou thy self shalt bleed for bleeding Rome.

Air

“Thou’ thy flatt’ring Minions tell thee,
None can rise, who shall excel thee;
“In revolving Years, believe me,
“(Heroe! I will not deceive thee)
“From distant German Climes shall rise
“A Heroe, more, than Julius, Wise;
“More Good, more Prais’d, more truly Great,
“Courted to sway BRITANNIA’s State:
“Such are the fix’d Decrees of Fate.
The Priest, the Bard, the Prophet then withdrew,
And to the thickest, Sylvan Covert flew.

CHORUS

Britons! the promis’d Blessing you behold.
So many finish’d Centuries foretold.
Inhuman Caesar strove to chain Mankind;
Your gen’rous Monarch labours to unbind.
That, to himself with Joy say Altars rais’d,
This, blushes ev’n to hear his Merit prais’d.
He owns his Glories to the Pow’r Divine;
Asks but his People’s Love, and not a Shrine.
Caesar records his Fame from captive Lands,
But GEORGE from rescu’d Kingdoms His demands.
EUROPE’s firm Peace is now his glorious Aim;
The Love of Peace from Heav’n derives its Flame:
Hush’d was the World, when the Messiah came. (Yes, Eusden is really comparing the king to Jesus.)

Compared to Eusden, Colley Cibber is a breath of fresh air. His poems made me think of the average pop song: unmemorable, but inoffensive. He did show some verve in defending himself from his critics:

The LAUREAT’s Answer to the POETS

My Brother Poets all are d--n’d severe,
Because I’ve got a hundred Pounds a Year,
They rail, they write, and threaten dire Disgrace,
And each is angry he has not the Place.
But let these worthy Gentlemen consider,
As a Dramatic Poet, I’m best Bidder;
My Careless Husband I’ll transmit to Fate,
With any Comedy produc’d of late.
O! but, say they, He’s a sad Wretch at Rhime.
Why, Gentlemen! Is that so great a Crime;
If want of Jingle, I supply with Sense,
I to the Laurel have a just Pretence.

And against Pope in particular:

Mr Colley Cibber’s Epitaph on Mr Pope

OUR pious praise on tombstones runs so high,
Readers might think, that none but good men die!
If graves held only such: Pope, like his verse,
Had still been breathing, and escap’d the herse!
Tho’ fell to all men’s failings, but his own,
Yet to assert his vengeance, or renown,
None Ever reach’d such heights of Hellicon!
E’en death shall let his dust this truth enjoy,
That not his errors can his fame destroy.

Prince Henry on the Death of Hotspur:

Adieu! and take thy praise with thee to heaven!
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember’d in thy epitaph.

He did turn out a few poems that aren't bad. The Blind Boy is too sentimental for my taste, but "On Miss M--ks and Miss H--" is pretty good:

Two lovely Nymphs desire my Song,
With rival charms they tempt and teize me;
Whether in Smiles or Frowns they long,
And while they long they still do please me.

The one, with lovely Eyes half kind,
Intreats me fondly to befriend her:
The other, with a Smile confin’s,
Silent demands me to condemn her.

To this, to that, I turn, I gaze,
Yet e’er I can resolve me, tremble;
Nor dare bestow alternate Praise,
Lest both should tell me I dissemble.

Take Courage, Heart! and both defy,
Of each alternate be the Capture;
When Praise to this gives Jealousy,
That kinder Jealousy’s thy Rapture.

When fair Bianca’s Fronwes resent,
She humbles thee to Sighs and Sadness,
But when her softer Eyes relent,
Well she repays the Pain with Gladness.

When gentler Charlotte thinks thee cold,
Or that she’s like her Locks neglected;
No longer, then she finds thee old,
But with a youthful Flame affected.

What tho’ thy Flame in neither Breast,
For thee, one Spark of Warmth inspire,
Yet, by the Muse, each Charms confest
May warm the worthy to admire.

By Nature guarded from the Harms
Which each to younger Hearts may measure:
I’m still contented, while they charm;
Be theirs the Triumph, mine the Pleasure.

Also included are a few poems by Stephen Duck, who was considered for the post before it went to Cibber. He’s like Cibber with a pastoral bent, although his The Thresher's Labour is worth reading.… (meer)