Table of Contents
|Author:||Barbauld, Anna Letitia Aikin, 1743-1825|
|Author Alternative Name:||Aikin, Anna Letitia; Anna Letitia Aikin Barbauld; Barbauld, Mrs. Rochemont|
|Author Nationality:||United Kingdom|
|Author Birth Place:||England; Europe; Kibworth Harcourt, England; United Kingdom|
|Author Ethnicity:||English; European; Scottish|
|Editor/Translator:||Mason, Nicholas, fl. 2006|
|Editor/Translator Alternative Name:||Mason, Nicholas; Nicholas Mason|
|First Published Date:||1812|
ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD: Eighteen Hundred and Eleven, A Poem (1812)
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[First published in Eighteen Hundred and Eleven, A Poem, London, J. Johnson, 1812, pp. 1–25.
'Our old acquaintance Mrs. Barbauld turned satirist! The last thing we should have expected, and now that we have seen her satire, the last thing that we could have desired'. So begins John Wilson Croker's infamous attack on Barbauld's Eighteen Hundred and Eleven in the June 1812 issue of the Quarterly Review. Croker was at least in part reacting to the perceived disparity between Barbauld's dominant public ethos as one of Britain's most cherished voices on children's education and the ethos of radical Dissent she projects in Eighteen Hundred and Eleven. What Croker fails to acknowledge, though, is that speaking out on political and social issues was hardly new to the famed 'Mrs. Barbauld' (1743–1825; DNB). In the forty-four years between her first publication, Corsica: An Ode (1768), and Eighteen Hundred and Eleven, Barbauld had successfully shifted back and forth between didactic, largely apolitical books for children, such as Hymns in Prose for Children (1781) and the Lessons for Children series (1787–88), and pamphlets tackling Britain's most pressing political and social issues, like her Address to the Opposers of the Repeal of the Corporation and Test Acts (1790) and her pro-abolitionist Epistle to William Wilberforce (1791).
As becomes increasingly obvious as his review progresses, Croker's disdain for Barbauld's poem originates not so much from concerns over its literary merit as from two basic prejudices – his strong distaste for the poet's politics and a deeply held conviction that women have no place participating in discussions of national affairs. In what are now the most frequently cited passages of Croker's review, he first rants, 'We had hoped, indeed, that the empire might have been saved without the intervention of a lady-author', and then scoffs at the idea of Barbauld feeling 'an irresistible impulse of public duty' that 'induced her to dash down her shagreen spectacles and her knitting needles, and to sally forth … in the magnanimous resolution of saving a sinking state'.[note]
Much of what Croker resists in Eighteen Hundred and Eleven is Barbauld's refusal to glorify the present war effort. Other than the brief peace of 1802–03, Britain had been constantly at war with France for nearly two decades by 1811. When Barbauld
[p. 119] | [Page Image]picked up her pen, the prospects of Britain winning the war anytime soon looked particularly bleak. In recent years, Russia (1807), Spain (1808), and Austria (1809) had successively buckled under the might of Napoleon's forces, and, with its economy in shambles from the prolonged war effort, it appeared increasingly likely at the beginning of the Regency that Britain would fall next.[note] Living in London in 1811, then, and being subject to a seemingly endless stream of bad news from both home and abroad, it was only natural for Barbauld to adopt a eulogistic attitude toward European ascendancy and, more specifically, the future of the British Empire. The result is a poem that forcefully indicts European leaders whose pride and lust for war blinds them to both the present suffering of their people and the ultimate consequences of the endgame they have entered. Barbauld resists the urge to wax apocalyptic, however, choosing instead to see the sunset of Britain's golden age as part of history's natural progression. As the poem vividly prophesies, what Britain once was, America shall be; and what Greece and Rome are, Britain shall become.
Unlike most of the satire in this edition, Barbauld's poem makes no attempt at humour. Accordingly, Eighteen Hundred and Eleven belongs not to the more popular early-nineteenth-century forms of laughing satire, but to the darker, more sombre side of the Juvenalian tradition. Barbauld's most immediate models for this form would have been Johnson's London and Goldsmith's Deserted Village, the latter of which was an acknowledged favourite of the poet and seems to have particularly influenced the style and mood of Eighteen Hundred and Eleven.[note] Noting this, an unsympathetic reviewer in the Anti-Jacobin Review called the poem 'a miserable travestie of Goldsmith'.[note] As Barbauld's poem reminds us, however, time has a remarkable ability to change our perspective. Nearly two hundred years after being cast off as a lesser Goldsmith and a 'lady author' with limited understanding of national affairs, Barbauld has been at least in part vindicated. Not only does Eighteen Hundred and Eleven now have an eerily prophetic quality to it, but a growing number of critics are recognising it as one of the most powerful political satires of the early nineteenth century.]
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STILL the loud death drum, thundering from afar,
O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war:
To the stern call still Britain bends her ear,
Feeds the fierce strife, the alternate hope and fear;
Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate,
And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state.
Colossal Power[note] with overwhelming force
Bears down each fort of Freedom in its course;
Prostrate she lies beneath the Despot's sway,
While the hushed nations curse him—and obey.
Bounteous in vain, with frantic man at strife,
Glad Nature pours the means—the joys of life;
In vain with orange blossoms scents the gale,
The hills with olives clothes, with corn the vale;
Man calls to Famine, nor invokes in vain,
Disease and Rapine follow in her train;
The tramp of marching hosts disturbs the plough,
The sword, not sickle, reaps the harvest now,
And where the Soldier gleans the scant supply,
The helpless Peasant but retires to die;
No laws his hut from licensed outrage shield,
And war's least horror is the ensanguined field.
Fruitful in vain, the matron counts with pride
The blooming youths that grace her honoured side;
No son returns to press her widow'd hand,
Her fallen blossoms strew a foreign strand.
—Fruitful in vain, she boasts her virgin race,
Whom cultured arts adorn and gentlest grace;
Defrauded of its homage, Beauty mourns,
And the rose withers on its virgin thorns.
Frequent, some stream obscure, some uncouth name
By deeds of blood is lifted into fame;
Oft o'er the daily page some soft-one bends
To learn the fate of husband, brothers, friends,
Or the spread map with anxious eye explores,
Its dotted boundaries and penciled shores,
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Asks where the spot that wrecked her bliss is found,
And learns its name but to detest the sound.
And think'st thou, Britain, still to sit at ease,
An island Queen amidst thy subject seas,
While the vext billows, in their distant roar,
But soothe thy slumbers, and but kiss thy shore?
To sport in wars, while danger keeps aloof,
Thy grassy turf unbruised by hostile hoof?
So sing thy flatterers; but, Britain, know,
Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe.
Nor distant is the hour; low murmurs spread,
And whispered fears, creating what they dread;
Ruin, as with an earthquake shock, is here,
There, the heart-witherings of unuttered fear,
And that sad death, whence most affection bleeds,
Which sickness, only of the soul, precedes.
Thy baseless wealth dissolves in air away,
Like mists that melt before the morning ray:
No more on crowded mart or busy street
Friends, meeting friends, with cheerful hurry greet;
Sad, on the ground thy princely merchants bend
Their altered looks, and evil days portend,
And fold their arms, and watch with anxious breast
The tempest blackening in the distant West.[note]
Yes, thou must droop; thy Midas dream is o'er;
The golden tide of Commerce leaves thy shore,
Leaves thee to prove the alternate ills that haunt
Enfeebling Luxury and ghastly Want;
Leaves thee, perhaps, to visit distant lands,
And deal the gifts of Heaven with equal hands.
Yet, O my Country, name beloved, revered,
By every tie that binds the soul endeared,
Whose image to my infant senses came
Mixt with Religion's light and Freedom's holy flame!
If prayers may not avert, if 'tis thy fate
To rank amongst the names that once were great,
Not like the dim cold Crescent[note] shalt thou fade,
Thy debt to Science and the Muse unpaid;
Thine are the laws surrounding states revere,
Thine the full harvest of the mental year,
Thine the bright stars in Glory's sky that shine,
And arts that make it life to live are thine.
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If westward streams the light that leaves thy shores,
Still from thy lamp the streaming radiance pours.
Wide spreads thy race from Ganges to the pole,
O'er half the western world thy accents roll:
Nations beyond the Apalachian hills
Thy hand has planted and thy spirit fills:
Soon as their gradual progress shall impart
The finer sense of morals and of art,
Thy stores of knowledge the new states shall know,
And think thy thoughts, and with thy fancy glow;
Thy Lockes,[note] thy Paleys[note] shall instruct their youth,
Thy leading star direct their search for truth;
Beneath the spreading Platan's[note] tent-like shade,
Or by Missouri's rushing waters laid,
'Old father Thames' shall be the Poets' theme,
Of Hagley's woods[note] the enamoured virgin dream,
And Milton's tones the raptured ear enthrall,
Mixt with the roar of Niagara's fall;
In Thomson's[note] glass the ingenuous youth shall learn
A fairer face of Nature to discern;
Nor of the Bards that swept the British lyre
Shall fade one laurel, or one note expire.
Then, loved Joanna,[note] to admiring eyes
Thy storied groups in scenic pomp shall rise;
Their high soul'd strains and Shakespear's noble rage
Shall with alternate passion shake the stage.
Some youthful Basil from thy moral lay
With stricter hand his fond desires shall sway;
Some Ethwald, as the fleeting shadows pass,
Start at his likeness in the mystic glass;
The tragic Muse resume her just controul,
With pity and with terror purge the soul,
While wide o'er transatlantic realms thy name
Shall live in light, and gather all its fame.
Where wanders Fancy down the lapse of years
Shedding o'er imaged woes untimely tears?
Fond moody Power! as hopes—as fears prevail,
She longs, or dreads, to lift the awful veil,
On visions of delight now loves to dwell,
Now hears the shriek of woe or Freedom's knell:
Perhaps, she says, long ages past away,
And set in western waves our closing day,
Night, Gothic night, again may shade the plains
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Where Power is seated, and where Science reigns;
England, the seat of arts, be only known
By the gray ruin and the mouldering stone;
That Time may tear the garland from her brow,
And Europe sit in dust, as Asia now.
Yet then the ingenuous youth whom Fancy fires
With pictured glories of illustrious sires,
With duteous zeal their pilgrimage shall take
From the blue mountains, or Ontario's lake,
With fond adoring steps to press the sod
By statesmen, sages, poets, heroes trod;
On Isis' banks[note] to draw inspiring air,
From Runnymede[note] to send the patriot's prayer;
In pensive thought, where Cam's slow waters[note] wind,
To meet those shades that ruled the realms of mind;
In silent halls to sculptured marbles bow,
And hang fresh wreaths round Newton's awful brow.
Oft shall they seek some peasant's homely shed,
Who toils, unconscious of the mighty dead,
To ask where Avon's winding waters[note] stray,
And thence a knot of wild flowers bear away;
Anxious enquire where Clarkson,[note] friend of man,
Or all-accomplished Jones[note] his race began;
If of the modest mansion aught remains
Where Heaven and Nature prompted Cowper's[note] strains;
Where Roscoe,[note] to whose patriot breast belong
The Roman virtue and the Tuscan song,
Led Ceres to the black and barren moor
Where Ceres never gained a wreath before[note]:
With curious search their pilgrim steps shall rove
By many a ruined tower and proud alcove,
Shall listen for those strains that soothed of yore
Thy rock, stern Skiddaw, and thy fall, Lodore;[note]
Feast with Dun Edin's classic brow[note] their sight,
And visit 'Melross by the pale moonlight.'[note]
But who their mingled feelings shall pursue
When London's faded glories rise to view?
The mighty city, which by every road,
In floods of people poured itself abroad;
Ungirt by walls, irregularly great,
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No jealous drawbridge, and no closing gate;
Whose merchants (such the state which commerce brings)
Sent forth their mandates to dependant kings;
Streets, where the turban'd Moslem, bearded Jew,
And woolly Afric, met the brown Hindu;
Where through each vein spontaneous plenty flowed,
Where Wealth enjoyed, and Charity bestowed.
Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet
Each splendid square, and still, untrodden street;
Or of some crumbling turret, mined by time,
The broken stair with perilous step shall climb,
Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round,
By scattered hamlets trace its antient bound,
And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey
Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way.
With throbbing bosoms shall the wanderers tread
The hallowed mansions of the silent dead,
Shall enter the long isle and vaulted dome[note]
Where Genius and where Valour find a home;
Awe-struck, midst chill sepulchral marbles breathe,
Where all above is still, as all beneath;
Bend at each antique shrine, and frequent turn
To clasp with fond delight some sculpted urn,
The ponderous mass of Johnson's form to greet,
Or breathe the prayer at Howard's sainted feet.[note]
Perhaps some Briton, in whose musing mind
Those ages live which Time has cast behind,
To every spot shall lead his wondering guests
On whose known site the beam of glory rests:
Here Chatham's[note] eloquence in thunder broke,
Here Fox[note] persuaded, or here Garrick[note] spoke;
Shall boast how Nelson,[note] fame and death in view,
To wonted victory led his ardent crew,
In England's name enforced, with loftiest tone[note],
Their duty,—and too well fulfilled his own:
How gallant Moore[note],[note] as ebbing life dissolved,
But hoped his country had his fame absolved.
Or call up sages whose capacious mind
Left in its course a track of light behind;
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Point where mute crowds on Davy's[note] lips reposed,
And Nature's coyest secrets were disclosed;
Join with their Franklin,[note] Priestley's injured name,[note]
Whom, then, each continent shall proudly claim.
Oft shall the strangers turn their eager feet
The rich remains of antient art to greet,
The pictured walls with critic eye explore,
And Reynolds[note] be what Raphael was before.
On spoils from every clime their eyes shall gaze,
Ægyptian granites and the Etruscan vase;[note]
And when midst fallen London, they survey
The stone where Alexander's ashes lay,[note]
Shall own with humbled pride the lesson just
By Time's slow finger written in the dust.
There walks a Spirit o'er the peopled earth,
Secret his progress is, unknown his birth;
Moody and viewless as the changing wind,
No force arrests his foot, no chains can bind;
Where'er he turns, the human brute awakes,
And, roused to better life, his sordid hut forsakes:
He thinks, he reasons, glows with purer fires,
Feels finer wants, and burns with new desires:
Obedient Nature follows where he leads;
The steaming marsh is changed to fruitful meads;
The beasts retire from man's asserted reign,
And prove his kingdom was not given in vain.
Then from its bed is drawn the ponderous ore,
Then Commerce pours her gifts on every shore,
Then Babel's towers and terrassed gardens rise,
And pointed obelisks invade the skies;
The prince commands, in Tyrian purple[note] drest,
And Ægypt's virgins weave the linen vest.
Then spans the graceful arch the roaring tide,
And stricter bounds the cultured fields divide.
Then kindles Fancy, then expands the heart,
Then blow the flowers of Genius and of Art;
Saints, Heroes, Sages, who the land adorn,
Seem rather to descend than to be born;
Whilst History, midst the rolls consigned to fame,
With pen of adamant inscribes their name.
The Genius now forsakes the favoured shore,
And hates, capricious, what he loved before;
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Then empires fall to dust, then arts decay,
And wasted realms enfeebled despots sway;
Even Nature's changed; without his fostering smile
Ophir[note] no gold, no plenty yields the Nile;
The thirsty sand absorbs the useless rill,
And spotted plagues from putrid fens distill.
In desert solitudes then Tadmor[note] sleeps,
Stern Marius[note] then o'er fallen Carthage weeps;
Then with enthusiast love the pilgrim roves
To seek his footsteps in forsaken groves,
Explores the fractured arch, the ruined tower,
Those limbs disjointed of gigantic power;
Still at each step he dreads the adder's sting,
The Arab's javelin, or the tiger's spring;
With doubtful caution treads the echoing ground,
And asks where Troy or Babylon is found.
And now the vagrant Power no more detains
The vale of Tempe,[note] or Ausonian[note] plains;
Northward he throws the animating ray,
O'er Celtic nations bursts the mental day:
And, as some playful child the mirror turns,
Now here now there the moving lustre burns;
Now o'er his changeful fancy more prevail
Batavia's dykes[note] than Arno's purple vale,[note]
And stinted suns, and rivers bound with frost,
Than Enna's plains[note] or Baia's viny coast;[note]
Venice the Adriatic weds in vain,
And Death sits brooding o'er Campania's plain;[note]
O'er Baltic shores and through Hercynian groves,[note]
Stirring the soul, the mighty impulse moves;
Art plies his tools, and Commerce spreads her sail,
And wealth is wafted in each shifting gale.
The sons of Odin[note] tread on Persian looms,
And Odin's daughters breathe distilled perfumes;
Loud minstrel bards, in Gothic halls, rehearse
The Runic rhyme, and 'build the lofty verse:'[note]
The Muse, whose liquid notes were wont to swell
To the soft breathings of the Æolian shell,
Submits, reluctant, to the harsher tone,
And scarce believes the altered voice her own.
And now, where Cæsar saw with proud disdain
The wattled hut and skin of azure stain,[note]
Corinthian columns rear their graceful forms,
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And light varandas brave the wintry storms,
While British tongues the fading fame prolong
Of Tully's[note] eloquence and Maro's[note] song.
Where once Bonduca[note] whirled the scythed car,
And the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war,
Light forms beneath transparent muslins float,
And tutored voices swell the artful note.
Light-leaved acacias and the shady plane
And spreading cedar grace the woodland reign;
While crystal walls[note] the tenderer plants confine,
The fragrant orange and the nectared pine;[note]
The Syrian grape there hangs her rich festoons,
Nor asks for purer air, or brighter noons:
Science and Art urge on the useful toil,
New mould a climate and create the soil,
Subdue the rigour of the northern Bear,[note]
O'er polar climes shed aromatic air,
On yielding Nature urge their new demands,
And ask not gifts but tribute at her hands.
London exults:—on London Art bestows
Her summer ices and her winter rose;
Gems of the East her mural crown adorn,
And Plenty at her feet pours forth her horn;
While even the exiles her just laws disclaim,
People a continent, and build a name:
August she sits, and with extended hands
Holds forth the book of life to distant lands.
But fairest flowers expand but to decay;
The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away;
Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring;
Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring.
Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread,
O'er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread,
And angel charities in vain oppose:
With grandeur's growth the mass of misery grows.
For see,—to other climes the Genius soars,
He turns from Europe's desolated shores;
And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm,
On Andes' heights he shrouds his awful form;
On Chimborazo's summits[note] treads sublime,
Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time;
Sudden he calls:—''Tis now the hour!' he cries,
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Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise.
La Plata[note] hears amidst her torrents' roar;
Potosi[note] hears it, as she digs the ore:
Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife,
And pours through feeble souls a higher life,
Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea,
And swears—Thy world, Columbus, shall be free.
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