UCSB LIBRARY
 
 POETRY 
 
 Its Origin, Nature, and History.
 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
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 POETRY 
 
 Its Origin, Nature, and Historv. 
 
 BEING 
 
 A GENERAL SKETCH OF POETIC AND 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE. 
 
 COiMl'REHENDINC; 
 
 CRITICAL, IHSTORICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICRS, WITH SPECIMENS, OF 
 
 THE MOST DISTINGUISHED WRITERS FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD 
 
 TO THE MIDDLE OF THE PRESENT CENTURY; TO WHICH 
 
 IS ADDED (separately liOUXD) 
 
 A COMPENDIUM 
 
 OF THE WORKS OF THE POETS OF ALL TIMES AND COUNTRIES, WITH 
 EXPLANATORY NOTES, SYNOPTICAL TABLES, 
 
 A CHRONOLOGICAL DIGEST 
 
 AND A 
 
 COPIOUS INDEX. 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK A. HOFFMANN. 
 
 London : 
 THURGATE & SONS, PADDl iNCiTON, \V. 
 
 1884.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting to the public these vohimes, I feel that I am contri- 
 buting to literature both a treasure and a curiosity ; for I may safely 
 assert that among the various works of this character extant, there 
 is not one, which, in the same number of pages, embraces more 
 information, and traces the progress of poetry through a longer 
 period. 
 
 It will be seen by the division of this work that my object has 
 been, not merely to give a collection of elegant extracts, but to 
 show, by a series of notes, the growth and development of poetry 
 up to the middle of this century. At the same time, it has no 
 pretensions to the title of a complete history of poetry ; but, in 
 seeking, though at so humble a distance, to follow the admirable 
 models presented by many celebrated critics in connecting liter- 
 ary investigations by an historical thread I may tiirow a certain 
 interest over a subject often dry and tedious in itself, and yet of 
 great importance in the records of the human mind. This plan 
 whether good or not, has necessarily involved the admission of a 
 few specimens from the productions of writers, who, although 
 deservedly enjoying much reputation, are not reckoned amongst 
 the classics of their own country. Where very long c^uotations 
 occur it has been done to afford to those who have not had the 
 means of being made cognisant of their works, a pleasant half hour 
 amongst their choicest effusions.
 
 Mention has been made of more than 5,000 poets, and particu- 
 lars given of all those who have in any way influenced poetry, or 
 deserve a place in the long role of poets. The space devoted to 
 the greater poets as in the case of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, 
 Milton, Southey, and others will serve to impress the reader with 
 a vivid idea of their merits and beauties. Fuller details might 
 have been given of Petraixh, Goethe, Voltaire, Tasso, &c , but of 
 late years so many new sources of information and critical opinions 
 relative to these great minds have been laid open to the public, 
 that it would seem presumptuous to treat largely of them in a work 
 of this description. 
 
 I have confined the specimens more exclusively to English 
 poetry, it being my intention, should this work meet with any 
 degree of favour, shortly to follow it by another which, together 
 with select specimens of English poetry will comprehend choice 
 examples of the most distinguished European poets. The style 
 adopted in the body of the work is for the purpose of making 
 it more suitable for the advanced classes in English academies, 
 and to serve as a text-book for those lectures on English literature 
 which are now given in so many institutions for young and work- 
 ing men. From its pages an accurate teacher may easily form 
 a series of such lectures, little else being necessary than to add to 
 the examples. 
 
 From the necessity of limiting myself to a convenient compass, 
 1 have been obliged, in dealing with the minor poets, both to 
 make my extracts shorter, perhaps, than I should have wished, and, 
 generally speaking, to illustrate each author by only one quotation. 
 It would have been undoubtebly more desirable to multiply speci- 
 mens 'from Cowley, Addison, Churchill, Joanna Baillie, Leigh 
 Hunt, Elliot, Hood, Hemans, and others ; but this was impossible ; 
 and the passages I have selected will, I think, suffice to give a 
 com]olete and correct idea of the style of the various writers. 
 
 The notes in the" Ccmpcndium,"' arc designed to supplement iii 
 detail the notices prefixed to most of the extracts; they might have
 
 V, 
 
 been multiplied ten-fold, and are only confined to such elucidations 
 as were deemed strictly indispensable. After some hesitation I 
 resolved upon leaving out altogether our own contemporaries, 
 save in the " Chronological Digest.' 
 
 The " Chronological Digest " will be found useful as a resume of 
 the whole work. It is very probable that discrepancies may be 
 discovered with regard to the dates, but this arises from the more 
 or less perfect information of the authorities employed, although 
 I have adopted the dates from the most trustworthy sources. The 
 dates assigned to Roman, Greek, and early Eastern poets must 
 always be received with a certain amount of diffidence and un- 
 certainty as regards their accuracy, since the most esteemed 
 authorities differ from each other considerably, and occasionally 
 to a remarkable extent. When we remember the uncertainties 
 which prevail in modern works treating of the lives of compara- 
 tively recent authors, we naturally cannot be surprised to find 
 them existing as to those of the period before Christ. In cases 
 of extreme doubt, however, I have signified it by an interrogation 
 mark. The Digest, as it will be seen, gives nominal mention of 
 many poets not spoken of in the body of the work. This has been 
 done to render it more complete, but in each case it is distinguished 
 by an asterisk (f). 
 
 Whatever defects and omissions are to be found in this work, 
 it is at least the result of a long and intimate acquaintance with 
 English and Foreign literature, and of a conscientious study of 
 the te.xts of the best-known poets of ancient and modern times. 
 Whenever secondary sources have been consulted they are carefully 
 cited, whether historians or critics. The extracts have lieen made 
 from the most correct editions I have l^een al^le to procure from 
 the many sources at my command ; and. being the only compila- 
 tion of its kind, it has necLSs.irily l}ccn the result of considerable 
 labour. Tlie extensive study reciuisito for the i)ro(.luction of a 
 work like the i)resenl, has hut little opportunity of displaying 
 itself otherwise than in the judicious remarks and general mastery
 
 of the subject. I therefore trust that it will be fitted for the pur- 
 pose it has in view. 
 
 It is presumed that a book of this description cannot fail to be 
 useful to many besides students to all, in short, whose minds 
 have been awakened to a desire of knowledge guiding them 
 amid stores of poetry, and distinguishing for them those works 
 which are most worthy of their attention. Compilers have been 
 somewhere designated as the pioneers of literature ; and it will 
 afford me much satisfaction if the following pages should clear the 
 road, or lessen the toil of any student of literature. 
 
 F. A. H.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 I. The Nature of Poetry ...... 1 
 
 Its alliance to Painting Poets their own biographers 
 Poetical enthusiasm The inventive quality of a Poet Not 
 a progressive art Artificial writers The materials of poetry 
 Derivation of the yioxd poet Despotism of the imagination 
 Shakespeare and Milton contrasted The term fact as ap- 
 plied to a writer of prose Rhythm The primary aim of a 
 poet Imitation of nature Uniformity The end and aim of 
 poetry The advantages of ancient poetry Arisrotle's view 
 The same contrasted with that of the ancient poets- 
 Conclusion of chapter. 
 
 II. The Progress of Poetry in the Middle x^ges . . 16 
 'J'he Augustan Era Grecian influence upon Roman Litera- 
 ture The state of Grecian Literature Decline of poetry 
 Trouveurs or Troubadours Age of chivalric poetry Min- 
 strelsy^The Harp as used by the Anglo-Saxons Increase of 
 poets in the 13th Century Minnesingers Latin Poetry 
 Origin of rhyming vnds Amusing anecdote of the latter 
 Dante and Petrarca Chaucer and Boccaccio Progress of 
 Literature in the I5lh Century Discovery of Printing. 
 
 III. 'I'he Early l*oets of Greece ..... 26 
 
 LiNCS. Particulars of liis life and works. Orfiiki:s, 
 Various opinions as to his existence .Accduiit of his ileath. 
 MuS/i:us. - Details of his life and works. IIoMKR. Contro- 
 versies on his poems A comment upon the age in which he 
 lived The iilentity of his poems with the Ancient Orceks 
 
 Value of his poetry Number and variety of incidents in 
 the ''Iliad" The "Odyssey' and 'Iliad ' contrasted- Ho- 
 mer's life as given by Herodotus Siinilts employed in his 
 works Kxaniples of liis finest ^lassages. Hesiod. Sketch of 
 life, etc.- The "Work and Days" The "Theogony"- As a 
 history of Pagan mythology Ilisehief excellencies -Extracts. 
 Ai.c.lilKH. His genius esiimated - The C'l/iJ- Horace's iniita- 
 li(ins. Sai'I'HO. As an .-Eolian poet The "Ode lo Aphio- 
 dite"' Anackkon. Short sketch of his career I'he beauty 
 of his poems Their licentious tendtiiey I'lM 'AK. -Tho 
 J:pini,>a audiither works General remarks. y?^scn vi.i's. 
 Asa tragic-poet -- Ilisdramatic excellencies, etc. (.'o.vci.UsioN. 
 
 Remarks on some t)f the minor Greek poets, Agatho, Car- 
 cinus, Dicitogencs, 4c. , asgethered from Aristotle ami others.
 
 IV. The Early Roman Poets 45 
 
 Plautus. His plays As adaptations from the Greek 
 Remarks on his predecessor, Livius Andronicus. Terence. 
 His Comedies The "Andrea" Its chief excellencies A 
 happy anecdote from his life. Ennius. As described by 
 Ovid Remarks on the "Annates" and other works His 
 style, etc. Lucrktius. The " De Rerum Natura." As a 
 philosophical poem Its didactic excellencies Other remarks 
 Catullus. As an Epigrammatist- His Greek imitations 
 Peculiarities of rhythm. Martial. Sketch of his career 
 His flattery of Domitian The Epigrams, their excellencies, 
 etc. Remarks on his contemporary Valerius Flaccus. PoL- 
 LIO. His chief works As a patron of Virgil, Horace and 
 others. HORACE. General remarks on his works His imi- 
 tations of Pindar and Anacreon His varied excellencies 
 As a philosopher of the Epicurean School A happy illus- 
 tration Other examples of the Odes. Propertius. Par- 
 ticulars of his life and works. Ovid. His banishment 
 The "Fasti" Its great value as a traditional poem- Dry- 
 den's translation of the "Pythagorean Philosophy" Other 
 examples of his poetry. Lucan. Account of the life. The 
 exquisite finish and sublimity of his poems. Virgil. Re- 
 marks upon his works The similes Contrasted with their 
 modern use Selections from the "Georgics" and "^Eneid." 
 
 v. Dante 64 
 
 The ' Divina Commedia" From what the idea was sug- 
 gested His immense powers of imagination Story of Ugo- 
 lino Macaulay's remark upon it General description 
 Virgil's supposed discouse with Dante The descent to hell 
 The inscription over the gate compared with a passage of 
 Milton A similar comparison drawn The story of Francisca 
 Description of the giants "The torment in lakes of ice" 
 described From what suggested Adoption of the same 
 idea by Shakespeare Explanation of other passages The 
 "Purgatory" Description of the first canto The same com- 
 pared with the "/Enied" of Virgil The "Paradise" Gary's 
 translation of the closing passage The value of the "Divina 
 Commedia" The numerous similes employed by Dante 
 His power of condensing ideas Personal character. 
 
 VI. Chaucer ....... .93 
 
 Historical remarks upon his life His versification, descrip- 
 tions, etc. Compared with Dante and Petrarca The allego- 
 ries he has employed The " Flower and Leaf" Warton's 
 remark upon the allegorical images of the early poets The 
 same contrasted with Chaucer Picturesof early customs given 
 by this poet Numerous examples of his poems Beauty of his 
 numbers As shown in a passage from the "Knight's Tale"^ 
 The "Canterbury Tales" Other remarks.
 
 IX. 
 
 VIII. The Elizabethan Era 101 
 
 Relapse of poetry after the death of Chaucer Minor poets 
 of the reigns of Henry VI. and Edward VI. Spenser, Shake- 
 speare and contemporaneous writers Ilazlitt on this period 
 The age of Elizabeth compared with other periods Numerous 
 translations from the Italian at this period Superstitions of the 
 age The freedom of invention employed at this time. 
 
 IX. The Early Elizabethan Dramatic Poets . . 106 
 Sackville. The'Tnduction" His imitation of Dante and 
 Virgil Defects of his "Gordobuc" Quotation from the same. 
 Marston. As a satirist The "Scourge of Villany" Des- 
 cription of his tragedies Lamb's remarks The "Malcontent " 
 
 Remarks and examples. Marlowe. His sport of sacred 
 subjects His powers of imagination Ifazlitt's remarks The 
 tragedy of " Doctor Faustus" described Some of the finest 
 passages quoted. Decker. His writings noticed "Old 
 Fortunatus " Truth of character in his works Opinions of 
 the same Examjjles. Heyvvood. Contrasted with Shakes- 
 peare Truth of his characters and descriptions Example 
 from "A Woman killed with kindness." Chapman. Want 
 of imagination and passion Dryden's opinion of his works 
 Quotation from the latter. Middleton. His pictures of real 
 life The "Witches" noticed, with examples. Webster, His 
 extraordinary powers of imagination Beauty of his characters 
 Laml)'s comments Ilis rare faculty of representing horror 
 The " Duchess of Malfy "The "White Devil "Ilazlitt's 
 remarks upon the same. Beaumont and Fletcher. Differ- 
 ence in style to the other dramatists of the age Passages from 
 tlie " .Maid's Tragedy" quoted The effeminacy of theirwritings. 
 Mas.singek. Unnatural characters introduced in liis ])lays 
 
 Influence of tlie Italian comedy upon his writings Ilis strik- 
 ing reseniljlanceloMoliere Examples from tlie "City Madam." 
 Ford. Ilis superiority to his contemporaries Ilis sulilime 
 conception -Description of some of his finest passages. 1>en 
 Jo\so.\. Tlie forced ap])earance of liis writings Fuller's re- 
 mark upon the same- His deep knowledge The wearisome- 
 ness of the subjecLs he taiiplnys - His siqx'riority in conicdv 
 Non-success of his plays Tlie " I'oflaster'' nolired with 
 examples. Shirlicv ami LolU) i'.i^ooKi;. -\\'arton"s opinion 
 oftlicir works, genius, etc. 
 
 X. Si)enser . . . . . . . . i;}9 
 
 Contrasted with Chaucer Influence of Tasso and others 
 upon his writings- -Tlie ' Fairie Queene '' The richness of his 
 alli ivories -Macaulay's remarks on his poem His allusions in 
 his works to historical iiersonaircs Tlie ol)scurity of his life - 
 I'Aliihitidii of the same, in his works The same as seen in his 
 earlier poems --The obscurity of his life com])are(l with that of 
 Shakespeare --Several illustrations of his writings.
 
 XI. Shakespeare 149 
 
 Observations by Campbell, Emerson, and Pope on his 
 genius The various terms which have been applied to him 
 Schlegel and Fuller on his merits His genius as a dramatist 
 His^'youth Use of tradition instead of invention Minute- 
 ness and reality of the characters in his plays The beauty of 
 his descriptions ; as seen in those of Music, Sleep, Flowers, 
 etc. Intense love of Nature exhibited in his plays Various 
 opinions upon the churacler of Ca/iian The contrast between 
 the material and spiritual His extraordinary powers of 
 imagination Hazlitts remarks upon Lear His marvellous 
 power in representing Passion An instance of the same 
 in Othello and Macbeth His power of delineating the evil 
 passions "Hamlet" considered as the most natural of 
 Shakespeare's plays Description of human life given in 
 " Romeo and Juliet " Hazlitt's remark upon the same 
 "Timon of Athens "Intensity of feeling exhibited Various 
 other opinions as to his plays, poems, etc. 
 
 XII. Milton 184 
 
 Macaulay's remark on his poetry His resemblance to 
 Dante Campbell on his genius His blindness The "Para- 
 dise Lost " The mysteries of the same An example 
 shown of the difficulty of Milton's theme "Paradise Re- 
 gained " Puritan opinions expressed in it The " Samson 
 Agonistes " Milton's doctrinal opinions Butler's remarks 
 upon his reli,f,nous opinions The "Nativity" Lander's 
 opinion of it The same poem contrasted with the "'Passion" 
 The figurative language of Scripture used in the ode "On 
 Time" The clearness and beauty of " Comus " Its merit 
 as an allegory The "Allegro" and "II Penseroso " Ma- 
 caulay's oljservation upon them A contrast drawn between 
 the two latter poems Milton's inferiority to Shakespeare 
 Tennyson's beautiful lines upon this poet. 
 
 XIII. Dryden . . - 207 
 
 His powers of imagination and complete mastery over the 
 English language The character of the poetry of his time 
 Varicnis remarks and opinions upon his poetry by Sir Walter 
 ScDtt, Clray, Pope, Hazlitt, Coleridge and others The subjects 
 ofniany of his poems uninteresting at the present day His want 
 of sentiment His great powers of diction Pope's remarks 
 on the latter His tragedies Selections from the " Conquest 
 of (Iranada." and " Aimanzor '' The "Annus Mirabilis'' Re- 
 marked upon with quotations from it Number of similes 
 Dryden employed Numerous examples. 
 
 XIV. Pope , . 217 
 
 Observation of Byron upon his genius Considered as a 
 classical poet The influence of P'rench models upon his 
 writings His superiority as a critic and satirist His versifi-
 
 XI. 
 
 cation Examples of the latterfrom the " Messiah" and"\Vind- 
 sor Forest" His want of originality The "Essay on Criti- 
 cism," with extracts His superiority in representing types of 
 character Various illustrations of the same His mastery 
 over poetic form, the heroic couplet, etc. The same compared 
 with Dryden Pope's artificiality of style Remark of a well 
 known critic upon the poetry of his time His great creative 
 powers ^Johnson's remarks on his genius, etc. 
 
 XV. Prior 228 
 
 The extreme sweetness of his writings The interest that 
 attaches to him as a poet His peculiarity of metre, with an 
 extract from his own remarks upon the same Contrasted with 
 Pope His elegant use of parenthesis Noticed as an imitator 
 of the French style Compared with Fontenelle Various ex- 
 amples of the same His inferiority to Dryden and Pope His 
 familiarity with the Greek epigrams "Henry and Emma;" 
 upon what founded, etc. Extracts from " Solomon." 
 
 XVI. Swift 234 
 
 The want of poetic feeling seen throughout his works- 
 Resemblance to Butler The insipidity of many of his writings 
 Inventive fancy in the way of wit Mastery over every style 
 of English His inferiority to Butler in wit Ingenious use of 
 double endings and other peculiarities of rhyming Examples 
 from the "Legion Club " etc. General comment upon his 
 works Extracts from the "Grand Question Debated," and 
 other poems. 
 
 XVIL Butler 241 
 
 His instinctive powers as a poet His natural vi\i and power 
 The superiority of '' Hudibras " in this respect, over any other 
 work His inferiority in point of learning Various remarks 
 on his extraordinary genius The exalted reputation of the 
 "Hudibras" His accjuaintance with classical literature 
 The description of Sir Hudibras and the Squire quoted, with 
 exj)lanalory notes Account of the history and publication of 
 the "Hudibras"' -Sutler's limited jiowers of conversation 
 Several humourous passages cited, with other extracts. 
 
 XVIII. -Voun- 253 
 
 The peculiar stylcdfhis poetry Hc.uUy ofhis sentiments -- 
 The aUniity hct\Neen his lili' ami works The solemn cast of 
 his thoughts Remarks upon lii^. satire, the " Love of Fame " 
 The "Night Tlu)Ught8" Its excellency as a poem The val- 
 uable instruction to be derived from it Origin of the subject 
 Tlie deeji religious tone of this poem -Other remarks, etc. 
 upon the same, with extracts.
 
 xu. 
 
 XIX. Akenside 263 
 
 Cooper's opinion of his genius Definition of the term "gen- 
 ius" Remarks upon his chief poem His political and theo- 
 logical opinions as seen in his works Examples given His 
 great attachment to the cause of liljerty The same as shown 
 in the Ode "To the Earl of Huntingdown"and other poems 
 Extract from the former Various learned remarks upon the 
 "Pleasures of Imagination" by Johnson and others Its popu- 
 larity The beauty of Akenside's versification The happiness 
 of his subjects His lyric poetry The inferiority of his Odes 
 in point of diction and sentiment Numerous extracts. 
 
 XX. Langhorne 277 
 
 His great imaginative powers The beauty of the imagery 
 and versification he uses Remarks on the occasional faults in 
 his poetry; harshness,obscurity of style, etc. The classical sim- 
 plicity of his compositions ; rural imagery ; natural descriptions, 
 etc. A passage from the "Death of Adonis" in illustration 
 Elegance ofdic'ion and music of his numbers Poem "To the 
 Memory of Handel " quoted as an example Other remarks 
 on his chief poems, with quotations. 
 
 XXL Goldsmith 295 
 
 Remarks on the elements of his genius, imaginative powers, 
 appreciation of character, etc. The beautiful simplicity of his 
 writings- The "Traveller": its resemblance in style-to Pope; 
 the moral it contains, etc. Various extracts Eemarks on the 
 "Deserted Village" Goldsmith's description" of living men 
 His power in this respect compared with Plutarch and Key- 
 nolds Characters of ' David Oarrick and Burke' Observa- 
 tions on his plays Extract from "She stoops to conquer" 
 Minor poems, "Hermit" etc. Various examples. 
 
 XXIL Collins 306 
 
 A definition of 'genius' by Ciilfillan The same as applied to 
 this poet Remarks on Collins' early life and temperament 
 Resemblance to Coleridge An observation upon his peculia- 
 rities by another writer The destruction of his(9(A'j by his own 
 hand His genius analysed The remarkable height of his 
 imagination The same as exemplified in the "Passions" 
 Quotation from the same The music of his versitication 
 Comjiared in this respect with Milton and Coleridge Extracts 
 from the choicest of his Odes. 
 
 XXIII. Gray 312 
 
 His extensive learning Mason's remarks upon the same 
 Particulars of his varidus works -The "Elegy" noticed 
 Anecdote related of the same The 'melancholy grace' of his 
 writings Examples of this given by extracts from his Odes
 
 The beauty of his rhythm, with examples from the Ode "To 
 the Progress of Poesy," etc. His imitations of Norse and 
 Welsh poetry Important extracts. 
 
 XXIV. Cowper .320 
 
 His popularity as a religious poet Observations on religious 
 literature in England, France, and Germany at his time The 
 character of Cowper's poetry, and its influence on the people 
 His style compared to that of Milton His nationality as a 
 poet, and the extreme insularity of tone in his writings Re- 
 marks on his various poems The superiority of the " Task " 
 to his other works Its great success, and to what attributed 
 Observations by Ross and others respecting it His deficiency 
 in imaginative genius The same contrasted with Collins 
 Exemplified by extracts His deficiency of metaphorical lan- 
 guage The charms of his diction compared with Thomson 
 and others Various extracts The Hymns Notes upon them, 
 with numerous extracts Miscellaneous quotations. 
 
 XXV. Crabbe 338 
 
 His claim to popularity Various opinions as to his genius 
 The faithfulness of his pictures compared with those of Ho- 
 garth, Churchill, etc. His paintings of humble life scenes, 
 contrasted with Burns and IJloomfield His resemblance to 
 Jolinson, Mackintosh, and otlier great men Tlie beautiful 
 descriptions of the Sea given in his works Examples of the 
 same Tlie truthfulness and reality in his writings His 
 similitude to Cowper and Goldsmith in this respect His 
 want of imagination accounted for Extracts from his ' Life" 
 relating to the same Imitation of Pope in tlae "Village" and 
 "Library" Extracts from the former Various remarks upon 
 tlie " Borougli" and "Parish Register," with extracts. 
 
 XXVI. Wordsworth 359 
 
 His entire peculiarity as a poet His religious love of nature, 
 and truthful delineation of character Remarks on his char- 
 acler and genius His attachment to common subjects, and 
 trutliful representation of the same The difference shown 
 l)etween a i)ocl smd a verse-maker Exemplified in Burns, 
 Bioomfield and Wordsworlli Several extracts in illustration 
 of the latler Tlie religious opinions manifested in his works 
 Examples from his Odes and lilank \erse Miscellaneous 
 extracts --The"Excursion" noticed, with various quotations. 
 
 XXVII. Coleridge ....... 375 
 
 A critical opinion of hisworks The power ofhis [loetry upon 
 the mind -Illustrated in his "Sony's of the Pixies,'" etc. - His 
 similarity to Wordsworth His language contrasted with that 
 of .Southey The peculiarity ofhis writings An example from 
 tlie Ode "To the Departing year" His originality of thought;
 
 as seen in the Ode " Fears in Solitude "The tragedy of 
 "Remorse " and its equality to Shakespeare in many respects- 
 Remarks upon its characters, descriptions, etc. The singularity 
 of "The Ancient Mariner" noticed, with several extracts 
 A critical remark on the same The "Kubla Khan" 
 Quotations from the same His originality as a love-poet 
 Compared in the same with Byron and Moore, and contrasted 
 vi'ith Wordsworth His imitation of Tetrarch- Extract from 
 "Love or Genevieve" Various selections from the Sonnets, 
 etc. 
 
 XXVIII. Lamb .391 
 
 His merit as a poet Want of poetical imagination Consi- 
 dered as an essayist His supremacy as a critic of Shakespeare 
 Definition of the word ' critic ' The same applied to Lamb 
 His imitation of Burton in "Rosamund Gray" The indif- 
 erence of appreciation paid to him as a poet Remarks upon 
 "Hester" with quotations The "Farewell to Tobacco" 
 Its continuity of writing Extract from the same Several 
 choice quotations from "John Woodvill," etc. Concluding 
 remarks. 
 
 XXIX. Southey 397 
 
 The quality of his genius Shaw's observation upon the 
 same The excessive extravagance of his language Exempli- 
 fied in "Thalaba," "Curse of Kehama," etc. His individu- 
 ality as a poet Peculiarity of the rhythm he employs His 
 gorgeous descriptions ; illustrated by numerous extracts The 
 supernatural personages introduced in the "Thalaba," etc. 
 "The Kehama",: upon what grounded; its faults and excel- 
 lencies ; its gorgeous descriptions, etc. The "Joan of Arc"; 
 considered as a juvenile production Hazlitt's oliservation on 
 its merits Extensive quotations The "Vision of Judgment" 
 with comments upon the rhythm, from whom imitated, etc. 
 Several interesting facts relating to this poem Southey's early 
 days His religious and political opinions The latter as 
 shown in the "Vision of Judgment " The originality, etc. of 
 his Metrical Tales, with examples - Particulars of, the source, 
 etc. of his Legends An illustration from " The Lover's Rock" 
 His legendary and cliivalric enthusiasm As seen in "Queen 
 Oraca" Uetallsof his lyrics and minor poems, with numert)us 
 quotations. 
 
 XXX. Kirkc White 427 
 
 A poetical observation u])on his works- -The universal 
 appreciation of his writings l^xliact fi-o'.n Soutlie)''s 'Life of 
 Kirke White' Similarity to Chatteilon The sincerity and 
 piety of his sentiments A comparison shown between his 
 works and i^ersonal history His early days as reflected in the 
 poem "Childhood" Further picture of his youth as seen in
 
 the "Address to Contemplation," "On being confined to 
 School," "Clifton Grove," etc. His early religious opinions 
 noticed The general melancholy that pervades and influences 
 his writings His descriptions of natural olDJects The elegance 
 of his language Beauty and merit of the lyrics and fragments, 
 with examples Concluding remarks upon his life and works 
 by a distinguished writer. 
 
 XXXI. Byrori 441 
 
 Different critical remarks on his genius A brief mention 
 of his private character His antipathy to hypocrisy Brydges' 
 excellent opinion of his merits The rarity of his genius as 
 shown in "Don Juan," The "Childe Harold," noticed in a 
 general analysis; remarks upon its chief merits, and examples 
 of many of its choice passages " Don Juan" ; its versification, 
 richness of ideas, images, etc. Extracts from several of the 
 cantos Its chief defects The original humour, wit, peculi- 
 arity of expression, and incidents of the same The versifi- 
 cation, sentiment, imagery, etc. of the "(liaour," and "Siege 
 of Corinth" The variety of descriptions contained in the latter 
 A comparison drawn l)etween the two poems The versi- 
 fication, dramatic descriptions and intensity of " Mazeppa " 
 Choice selections from the "Parisana," "Prisoner of Chil- 
 lon," and " Bride of Abydos," with remarks on their various 
 beauties His mastery over every species of metrical form 
 Exemplified by quotations from "Lara," "The Island," "'Bep- 
 po," " Vision of Judgment," etc. Particulars of the circum- 
 stances under which the latter poem was written Remarks 
 upon the "Lament of Tasso," and "Prophecy of Dante," with 
 extracts His minor poems -An elegant remark upon "The 
 Dream," Exani]ile from the opening stanza His dramatic 
 works Upon what style founded The excellencies of "Man- 
 fred," its fine descri]Hions, resemblance to "Cain "etc. His 
 historical poems, "Marino Faliero," the "Two Foscari," and 
 "Sardanapalus" In what way they resemble Shelley Con- 
 cluding remarks. 
 
 XXXII. Shelley 466 
 
 Contrasted with liyron Various opinions upon the ]"ieculiar- 
 ities of liis genius i lis so-called atheistical opinions justified 
 "(^ueen Mab" Its resemblance to Soulliey in versification, 
 etc. Its defects, exjilaincd with extracts Interesting jiassnges 
 quoted from the "Alastor," Various remarks upon "Hellas," 
 the " Revoltof Islam," and the "Witch of Atlas"-- Tiie vague- 
 ness in meaning of the subjects of the former -Numerous 
 examples - Explanatory remarks upon the "Cenci," "Prome- 
 theus Unbound," and others The ])riiici|)al defect of the 
 "Prometheus" -Examples from "Rosalind and Helen'' - His 
 elegiac poetry -Tlie "Adonais"' From what the subject was 
 suggested Its resemblance to tile "Lycidas" of Milton
 
 Several of the most beautiful stanzas quoted The variety, etc. 
 of his versification Examples from the " Sensitive Plant," 
 and other poems Mis Odes and minor pieces Remarks on 
 "Love's Pliilosophy." 
 
 XXXIIL Keats .483 
 
 Byron's opinion of his genius and style Shaw's remarlcs 
 upon the latter His language contrasted with Shakespeare's 
 school The profusion of figurative language he employs 
 Eemarks and quotations from the "Endymion" Mistreatment 
 of classical mythology Illustrated in the verses on a "Grecian 
 Urn" Choice extracts from" Isabella," and the "Eve of St. 
 Agnes" From what the former was imitated His Sonnets, 
 with examples. 
 
 XXXIV. Moore .491 
 
 Remarks upon his genius His power of ready invention 
 As distinguished from such writers as Byron and Shelley 
 Remarks upon "Lalla Eookh" The plan upon which it is 
 written; its richness of painting, etc The want of reality in his 
 characters His useof the heroic verse Various extracts from 
 "Lalla Rookh" Observations upon his Odes of Anacreon, 
 with various extracts The Odes and Epistles Remarks, etc. 
 upon the former The Irish Melodies His Songs The same 
 contrasted with those of Burns Concluding remarks. 
 
 XXXV. Thomson 499 
 
 Remarks upon his style The " Seasons" particularized 
 His richness of language His original mode of thinking and 
 expressing his thoughts The beauty of the descriptions The 
 same as illustrated in his descriptions of the Seasons His luxu- 
 riance of diction as seen in Spritig Various quotations from the 
 "Seasons" Remarks upon the " Castle of Indolence," with 
 extracts His poem of "Liberty" The particulars under 
 which it was written Extract from the opening of the poem. 
 
 XXXVL Burns ... ... 507 
 
 His position as a Scotch poet His genius considered 
 Compared with Homer and Shakespeare His original hu- 
 mour His rare power of rejiresenting the most opposite pas- 
 sions- The same excmplilied by quotations from the "Twa 
 Dogs," " Address to the Deil," and other poems His power 
 of com.bining humourous with moralizing descriptions ; shown 
 by examples from "Death and Dr. Hornbrook," the "Brigs of 
 Ayr," "Lament for Glencairn," and others The " Tarn O'Shan- 
 ter" Its sly humour, brilliant dc-scriptions, touching pathos, 
 etc. noticed -Critical remarks \\\vn\, with quotations from 
 the " Cotter's Saturday Night '' His pastoral poetry Several 
 extracts in illustration of the same The merit of the Songs 
 Concluding remarks upon the peculiarities of his genius, etc.
 
 XXXVII Scott . . . . . . .521 
 
 His position as a narrative and romantic poet Notes on 
 his genius Comparison of the latter with that of Campbell, 
 Wordsworth, Cowper, and Southey A critic's opinion of the 
 same From what the materials of his poems were derived 
 The " Lay of the last Minstrel" Remarks upon its style, 
 variety of versification, etc. with various extracts The "Mar- 
 mion" Beauty of its descriptions and incidents The metre 
 in which it is written Some of its choicest passages quoted 
 The "Lady of the Lake" Macaulay's and others remarks 
 Examples of several of its descriptive passages Extracts from 
 "Rokeby," " Lord of the Isles," "Vision of Don Rhoderick," 
 and other poems His lyric poetry, with illustrations, 
 
 XXXVIII. Montgomery . . . , . .530 
 
 His genius contrasted with Cowper's An elegant remark 
 upon the same by a modern writer Noticed as a religious 
 poet Comments upon his poems "Greenland," " Wanderer 
 of Switzerland," " West Indies," and the " World before the 
 flood," with various extracts, etc. Examples of his minor 
 poems, including the "Harp of Sorrow," and others, with 
 remarks. 
 
 XXXIX. Campbell . _ 535 
 
 His superiority as a lyric poet The opposite character of 
 hispoetryto other writers of his time- -The circumstances under 
 which he adopted ihisoriginality The peculiar excellencies of 
 his works The beauty i of the "Pleasures of Hope," Consi- 
 dered as a sentimental poem A choice extract from the same 
 Remarks upon "Gertrude of Wyoming," with extracts The 
 excellencies of his patriotic Songs "Ye Mariners of England," 
 etc. Specimens of several of his choicest lyrics. 
 
 XL. Minor Poets (Chaucer to Elizabeth.) . . . 538 
 RoiJKRT OK Gloucester. Particulars of his chief works 
 Warton's opinion of tlie same An cxami)le of his poetry. 
 RoiiKRT VK Erunne. The time in which he lived noticed 
 His "Manual of Sins," and from what imitated Quotations 
 from the same, with notes - Remarks upon other of his works 
 with vaiiiius opinions on his genius. Harbour. -Particulars 
 of the time at which he lived Details of his princijial produc- 
 tions -His a|)ostr<)i)he to Freedom ([uoled. Gowek. Various 
 remarks upon Jiis worl<s, their versification, etc. D'TsracH's 
 ojiinionof the former - Tlic^Confessio .\mantis," with extracts. 
 llAMroi.K. Remarks, with extracts upon the" Prick of Con- 
 science," -Want of sentiment and imagination in his writings 
 noticed. Lanci AND. His poem of picr's Plowman's Vis- 
 ion" -Considered as a satire HaUam's opinion -Examples 
 of his allegories, with n(jtes. Lvdcaik. The elements of 
 his genius described, with details of his principal poem
 
 The character of 'Venus 'as given in the "Siege of Troy," 
 The same as compared with Chaucer, and illustrated by 
 quotations from the "Life of our Lady." James I. His 
 position and merit as a poet Kemarks upon the "King's 
 Quair," with particulars of the circumstances under which it was 
 written Its superiority in language etc, to any earlier works 
 The profusion of allegorical images in it " Christ's Kirk on the 
 Green," and "Pebles to the Play," critically noticed Various 
 extracts. Occleve. His merit as a poet The translation 
 of Egidius' " Le Kegnum Principium" Extract from the 
 same of a passage written to the memory of Chaucer An 
 account of the iricotch poets of this date. Henrysox. 
 Particulars of his principal productions His Fables in verse 
 noticed, with extracts. DuxBAR. A general observation of 
 his works Eulogium upon his genius Remarks upon the 
 "Dance" His resemblance to Dante in the latter Extracts, 
 with notes. Douglas. The "Palace of Honour," "King 
 Hart," etc. commented upon His translation of Virgil noticed, 
 with an explanatory extract. Moxtgomery, His reputation 
 at this period as a Scotch poet Remarks upon the "Cherrie 
 and the Sloe," Quotations from his smaller poems. Blixd 
 EIarry. Hisnarrative of the "Exploits and deeds of William 
 Wallace" Picturesque passages descriptive of the Seasons 
 quoted Other extracts from the same poem. Skeltox. His 
 comic and satirical poems Against whom the latter were 
 directed The peculiar doggrel measure of these poems, with 
 other remarks upon their metre, etc, The genius with which 
 he exhibits allegorical images Example given in his painting 
 oi Disdain. More. Remarks on the " Utopia," his miscella- 
 neous verses, etc. Choice extracts from the latter, with notes. 
 Hawes. His important position as a poet of this date The 
 further importance which attaches to him as a poet Remarks 
 upon his predecessors The "Pastime of Pleasure," Many 
 striking extracts given. Lyxdsay. Considered as a humourist 
 and satirical writer The beauty of his descriptive passages 
 Elegant extracts of the latter from the ''Monarchy." Barclay. 
 His translation from the German of the "Ship of Fools,'" 
 General remarks upon it, with examples. AVyatt. Noticed 
 as an imitator of Petrarch His position as an English satirist 
 His chief defects Several elegant extracts from his lyric 
 poetry. SURREY. His style, rhytlim, etc. Position as an 
 English classical poet The sujieriority of his genius to that 
 of Wyatt Ilis representation of rural imagery Specimen of 
 the latter. Vaux. A general observation upon his works, 
 with specimens of his poetry. Tusser. His merit as a didactic 
 j)Oet Kemarks upon his ]MK-m "A Hundred good jioir.ts of 
 Husbandry" Warton's opinion of the same Quotation from 
 the above mentioned. KuwarijES. His rank as a dramatist 
 The "Paradise of Dainty Ue vises" A specimen of his style.
 
 XIX. 
 
 XLI. Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era . . . 558 
 Verb. His rank as a poet Example of his poetry. Gas- 
 COIGNE. Asa Satirist " The Steel Glass," and other poems. 
 TuRBERViLLE. Inferiority to Gascoigne His peculiarity of 
 metre. Raleigh. General remarks Spenser ' Shepherd's 
 Description of Love." Lyly. His plays "Alexander and 
 Campaspe," with examples. Sydney. The Sonnets Super- 
 iority to his contemporaries Examples. BuooKE. His 
 influence on Dryden Specimens of his verse. Lodge. Rank 
 as a dramatist Chief works noticed. Southwell. Remarks 
 on his verse " Love's Servile Lot." Daniel. His diction, 
 language, etc. Example of his poetry. Drayton. Contrasted 
 with Daniel Voluminousnessof his works "The Polyolbion." 
 Sylvester. The " Divine \Veeks and Works" Its influence 
 on Milton Examples. WoTTON. " Lines to the Queen of 
 Bohemia" Remarks. Donne. His voluminous writings 
 Rank and genius as a poet The5/t;'w. Davies. Remarks 
 on his verse, imagery, etc. Extracts. Hall. As a Satirist 
 Peculiar merits of his verse Remarks and extracts. Sandys. 
 The " Metamorphoses " Remarks on the "Psalms," with 
 examples. Alexander. As a poet His versification, etc. 
 The " Doomes-Day." Overbury. "The Wife" noticed, 
 with examples. Corbet. His miscellaneous verse noticed 
 with specimen. Fletcher (P.) "ThcPurple Island "as an 
 allegory. Fletcher (G) Remarks and examples on "Christ's 
 Victory and Triumph." Beaumont. The "Bosworth Field." 
 Drummoni). His chief works; "Flowers of Sion," Sonnets, 
 etc. WriiiER. As a pastoral poet The "Shepherd's Hunt- 
 ing." Carew, General review of his verse. Browne. 
 " Brittannia's Pastorals "--Remarks, etc. King. His mis- 
 cellaneous verse noticed, with a choice quotation. Herrick. 
 The lyrics "To Daffodils," etc. Quarles. The singular 
 quaintness of his writings Extract from the "Divine Eml)lems" 
 Walton. The "Complete Angler" Its pastoral beauties, 
 etc. Herhert. The Christian simplicity of his writings 
 Coleridge on his lyric verse -"The Temjile" Exam|)les. 
 .Shirley. As a dramatist His poem on "Death's Final 
 Conquest." -Storer Remarks, etc. on his verse. Waller. 
 His lyrics noticed, witii a clioice specimen. Randolph. 
 His plays and poems. Davenant. Merits and defects of 
 the "Gondibert." Habington. A notice of his verse. 
 
 XLIL Minor Poets of the Commonwealth . . 594 
 
 Suckling.-- His attractiveness of style Influence on the 
 Commonwealth poets Examples. Pkacham. The "Hero- 
 ical Devises," "Stricken Deer," etc. More. Remarks, etc. 
 on the " Song of the Soul." Vaughan. His chief works 
 noticed. Crashaw. His varied excellencies Chief works. 
 Denham. " Cooper's Hill," with extracts. Sherburne.
 
 Translations and miscellanies. Lovelace. Compared with 
 Suckling- -"To Althea," and other lyrics. CowLEY. The 
 "Davideis," Anacreontics, etc. Remarks and examples. 
 Browne. His political and other satires. Marvell. Asa 
 contemporary of Milton Interesting quotation. Philips. 
 The individuality other writings Example. ROSCOMMON. 
 His translations, etc. Dorset. Remarks on his ballads. 
 Ken. The Hymns, etc. Skdley. His lyrics with examples. 
 Garth. "The Dispensary." Rochester. His fugitive 
 pieces. Sheffield. As a poet and dramatist. Black- 
 more. Addison and Johnson on "The Creation" Extract. 
 NoRRis. Miscellaneous verse. 
 
 XLIII. Minor Poets of the Georgian Period . . 608 
 Landsdowne. Compared with Waller Lyrics, etc. 
 Pomfret. "The Choice," with examples. Yalden. 
 Chief poems noticed. Congreve. His Comedies, Poems, etc. 
 Rowe. Asadramatist His"Colin'sComp]aint." Watts. 
 As a moral poet The "Psalms," etc. Philips. 'I'he 
 "Splendid Shilling," " Cider," etc. Hughes. Remarks on 
 his poems, plays, etc. Parxell. "The Hermit " and other 
 pieces. Ramsay. "The Gentle .Shepherd" As a pastoral 
 drama Remarks on the dialect, dialogue, etc. Interesting 
 extract. Fentox. The "Odyssey" His minor poems. 
 Hill. As a dramatist His poems also noticed. Tickell, 
 His rank as a 'New Augustan' poet "Lucy and Colin." 
 Gay. Particulars of his chief poems, with remarks on the 
 " Beggar's Opera.'' Broome. His share in Pope's "Odyssey " 
 Miscellanies. Byrom. The " Essay on Enthusiasm " and 
 other poems Montgomery on his versification. Addison. 
 As a dramatist Remarks on his Hymns and miscellaneous 
 pieces. Somerville. "The Chase" His rank as a didactic 
 poet Example. Green. Remarks on "The .Spleen" Its 
 descriptive beauties. Sa\'AGE, Various remarks Extract 
 from "'l"he Bastard." Dyer. "Grongar Hill'' Wordsworth 
 and Gray on his merits. Mallett. The. Bal/aJs. Blair. 
 " The Grave," with example. Hoavard. His miscellaneous 
 writings noticed. Hamilton. His moral pieces, Cotton. 
 His merits as a minor poet, etc. Lytileton. Miscellaneous 
 verse. Armstrong. The "Art of Preserving Health" 
 Its diction, imagery, etc. Johnson. His Satiies Compared 
 with Juvenal Other remarks. Gamkold. The //)';; and 
 other pieces. Their various merits. Gi.OVER. The " Leon- 
 idas," with example Also remarks on "The Athenaid," 
 Shensione. Asajiasloralpoct Th^: /ui//ads. Cawthorn. 
 "Abelard to Eioisa."an(l other pieces. Smollett. As a 
 novelist ' The Tears of Scotland." Blacklock. Com- 
 pared with Parnell and Shenstone Example. Smart. The 
 " Song to David" Remarks on the " Hiliad." Wilkie. 
 His versification, etc. Mason. His poetical dramas The
 
 Odes, etc. Churchill. Rank as an English satirist 
 Hannay's Memoir The influence of his writings on Cowper 
 and Crabbe "Gotham." Warton. His "History of 
 English Poetry" The Sonnets. Falconer. "The Ship- 
 wreck" Its descriptive beauties, etc. An example. Scott. 
 As a pastoral writer "The Praise of Rural Life." Dakwin. 
 Remarks on the "Botanic Garden" Extract from the opening 
 canto. PORTEUS. His works on divinity "Death," its 
 beauties, etc. Mickle. His translation of the "Lusciad" 
 Minor poems. Beattie. Descriptive merits of " The 
 Minstrel" Other remarks. WoLCOT. His original humour 
 'Wi^ Odes. Piozzi. '' Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson" Her 
 miscellaneous poems An example. Barbauld. The "Ad- 
 dress to the Deity,'' etc. More. The contrast between her 
 early and late poems The religious dramas Example from 
 " David and Goliath." Jones. His Eastern translations 
 Rank as an oriental scholar Other remarks on his original 
 poems. Sewaru. The Sonnets Example. Logan. As a 
 lyric poet His tragedy of " Runnymede." Ferguson. 
 Eulogium on his genius Influence of his writings on Burns 
 His pastoral and other poems. Chatterton. Remarkable 
 ingenuity of the " Rowley Poems" His miscellaneous pieces. 
 RoscoE. The Odes Example. Bowles. As a writer of 
 Sonnets That "To Charity" quoted. Rogers. "Pleasures 
 of Memory" Its merits, etc. His other works. Harte. 
 His imitations of Chaucer, and others The Essays, etc. 
 West. Translation of Pindar Remarks, etc. Melmoth. 
 His prose works His miscellaneous poems noticed. HAM- 
 MOND. The Elegies Their pastoral beauties. Carter. 
 Her translation of Epictetus Remarks on the " Ode to 
 Wisdom." Merrick. His various writings noticed, with 
 extracts. Bkuce. Peculiarities of his genius, immaturity of 
 style^The " Elegy on Spring." Baillie. Individuality of 
 style 'Byron's eulogium upon her as a dramatist -The 
 ".Series of Plays." Graha.me. Resemblance to Cowper 
 "Sabbath," "Sabbath Walks," etc. Bloom itp:li). "The 
 Farmer's Boy" Its picturesof rustic life, etc. HuRDLS. His 
 defects as a dramatist As an expositor of Shakespeare 
 Remarks on the " Village Curate," etc. Hogg. His great 
 natural gifts The "Queen's Wake." Levden. Sir Waller 
 Scott on his poetry The Ballads, etc. Smlih (J.) The 
 voluminousness of his writings His share in the " Rejected 
 Addresses." Smith (II.)- -His contributions to the latter 
 "Address to the Mummy,'' with examples, Tighe. "Psyche," 
 etc. Extracts. Wilson. The "Isle of Psalms'' Resem- 
 blance in style to Wordsworth. Tennant. " Anster Fair;" 
 its ([uaiut and rustic descriptions, variety of characters, etc. 
 Grainger.-- The "Sugar Cane" His Ballads. Hart. 
 The Hymns Example. Croly. Remarks on his poems. 
 Elliot. The "Corn Law Rhymes," Browne. The "Pis-
 
 catory Eclogues." Gifford. Asasatirist The "Baviad and 
 Ma;viad." Heber. Siniiliarity to Cowper Example of one 
 of his chief poems. Taylor. "Essays in Rhyme " Mont- 
 gomery's opinion of them Example. Cunningham. His 
 pastorals, ballads, etc. 
 
 XLIV. Minor Poets of the Victorian Era . . .686 
 Hunt. The various merits, etc. of his works Illustrated by 
 examples. Barton. His voluminous poems Their general 
 mediocrity. MrrFORD. -Her poems The rustic images they 
 contain Her novel of "The Village" noticed. Proctor. 
 Interesting remarks and quotations. Hemans. Inferiority 
 to Joanna Baillie Her versification, etc Wilson's beautiful 
 eulogium "Songs of the Affections," etc. Pollock. The 
 "Course of Time;" its faults, etc. Examples. Coleridge 
 (H.) His minor pieces with example. Coleridge (S.) 
 Remarks on her miscellaneous verses. Bayly. His Songs, 
 and sacred pieces An example. HoOD. Variety of style 
 Characteristics of his genius Similarity to Hook His chief 
 writings Examples. Landon. Her original powers of verse 
 Wilson's opinion" Rosalie," etc. noticed. Longfellow. 
 English sympathy with his works Their moral influence 
 Other remarks, ete. Howitt(W.) Rank as a poet Descrip- 
 tions of nature. HowiTT (M.) Her miscellaneous verses, etc. 
 
 Select Translations ....,-. 702 
 
 Homer Hesiod Archilochus Tyrt?eus Simonides of 
 Amorgos Alcman Sappho Anacreon Pindar Ej^ichar- 
 mus Euripides Aristophanes Moschus Callimachus 
 ApoUonius Rhodius Philemon Menander Plautus Lu- 
 cretius Catullus Pha;drus Persius Seneca Stalius 
 Martial Lucan Juvenal. 
 
 Compendium, with Notes ...... 729 
 
 Greek Poets, 729-40. Roman, 741-54. Anglo-Saxon, 755-6, 
 762-5, 772-3. xVnglo-Norman, 763, 765, 767, 770, 774. 
 English, 773, 776-80, 783-7. Scotch, 772, 788, S05. Welsh, 
 758. Irish, 757. British. 704-804, 806-8, 8x8-25, S30-6, 
 840-6, 866-78. French, 757, 766-8, 770-I, 774, 775, 776, 
 809-10, 826-8, 837, 847-8, 879-80. Italian, 775, 781. 789-91, 
 813, 829, 838, 849-50. Spanish, 781, 782, 792,811, 812, 836, 
 861. Portugese. 765. German, 757. 772, 814. 852-9. Dutch, 
 815, 860. Flemish. 815. Scandinavian, 816-7, 862-4, 8S1-2. 
 Russian. 865. Polish, 882. Hungarian, 882. Arabian, 759. 
 Indian, 760, 761, 762, 769. 
 
 Addenda 883 
 
 Chronological Digest 897 
 
 Index , . . 1030
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE NATURE OF POETRY. 
 
 Poetry may be considered as one of the fine arts, undoubtedly 
 it is theyfnV of the fine arts, for in it is embodied all the excellencies 
 of the others : its range is more extended, and it deals vvith abstract 
 ideas and questions of intellect which are beyond the reach of the 
 other arts. It does more than either sounds or colours can accom- 
 plish, though it is closely allied to both. Philustratus says "as the 
 poets introduce the gods and heroes, and all those things which 
 are either majestical, honest, or delightful ; in like manner the 
 painters, by the virtue of their outlines, colours, lights, and shadows 
 represent the same persons and thiags in their pictures.'' 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding the close aftinity between these arts, the 
 poet stands certainly first, for all the treasures of the painter and 
 sculptor have sprung from the imaginaiion of the poet. Both 
 are imitative arts, yet poetry is the least so; for 'Haitgnagc cannot 
 in any way directly copy from nature, unless it be in imitation of 
 sound ; and music, although said to imitate motion, in reality does 
 little more than imitate the sounds whicli accompany motion. In 
 comparison with music, poetry has a vast and acknowledged su- 
 periority, both as to the distinctness and variety of the impressions 
 it conveys." * 
 
 Poetry is from the imagination ; it exists only in the brain of the 
 writer, until cast forth in the shape of verse. The senses of the 
 poet are really affected in the itleal world in which he lives; this it 
 is that is peculiar to the poet. Without it, no mastery of talent or 
 metaphysical aid shall avail liini. It is a m\slcry of our nature 
 that whatever internal feelings violently haunt us. we feel reliexed 
 by communicating and gaining sym]);itliy lor them. \Vhen these 
 
 * Specimens of the earlier Englisli Poets, S. W. Simpson.
 
 2 The Nature of Poetry. 
 
 feelings are of a poetical character, and are thus communicated in 
 an adequate language, the fruit, I believe, never fails to be true 
 poetry. Those feelings are generally produced by the created 
 presentiments of a visionary mind. Lord Byron for example, has 
 even carried it to a high degree of superstition. 
 
 Poets are usually tempted by the very emotions which spring 
 from their genius, to take an opposite course. They feel so in- 
 tensely all that is peculiar to themselves ; they are so conscious 
 of their own divine faculty, and so sensible to the slights which 
 they receive from those whom they despise, that they are eager 
 to vent feelings, almost too big for utterance in their poetry. 
 And this is that by which a true poet may be read : they are 
 their own biographers. The external events in their lives, as well 
 as the movements of their feelings are often manifested in their 
 works. We know nothing of the life, character, or actions of 
 Homer, yet we know he must have felt the soft touches of kindred 
 and love, and bmoded over the fond recollections of early home. 
 He must have lived happily, or he would have been an egotist. 
 Had he been wretched he would have informed us of such in his 
 works. He was no doubt contented with liis lot, happy in the 
 sunshine of liis own mind. Milton, too, exhibits through his works, 
 the details of his life. We can conceive how happy he was under 
 his great affliction; he was occupied with his own glorious fancies 
 and dwelt in a fairer creation than this material world. Shakespeare 
 has thrown himself into a thousand characters, instead of philoso- 
 phising or describing his own; he lives and breathes in the works of 
 his own creation ; ;ind seems to exist in an immense variety of 
 persons rather than in one. i\obIe sentiments and heart-stirring 
 speeches symbols of his own character are thickly strown, but 
 they come from the moutlis of his heroes, and not from his own, 
 with dramatic propriety and force ! He was too much delighted 
 with the visions and joys which poesy opened befoie him for ever 
 new and fresh^to think of the shell in which his genius had taken 
 up its dwelling. 
 
 I never yet saw nor have I read, any full and authentic account
 
 ' . The Nature of Poetry. 3 
 
 of any one of great literary genius, who had not intense sensibility, 
 or who was entire master of himself. Enthusiasm is an indispen- 
 sable ingredient ; and the spirit will sometimes take possession 
 of persons so gifted. The philosopher founds his work on 
 reason, builds it up of facts and experiments; but the work of 
 the poet is from the imagination, stimulated and increased in 
 beauty, by passion. The poet must live in his world of fancy, his 
 moveable nerves are reality; he sees, he hears, he feels by each. 
 "Just as the idea of a thing will make us shudder, and only imagin- 
 ation often produce a real pain, so it is with the poet."* This state 
 of mind has even a reality for the generality of persons ; in a thea- 
 tre tears are often seen in the eyes of the spectators, who before 
 they have time to recollect that the whole is fictitious, have been 
 surprised for a moment by a strong conception of a present and 
 existing scene. He therefore who can accommodate himself to the 
 petty manners of the world, gives a proof that he is not a great 
 genius. He may assume the tone of deep pathos in his writings; 
 but it is factitious. The great proof of littleness is servility, courting 
 the fashionable, and living with the gay ! I always admired Smol- 
 lett's Ode to Independence. It was a burst of genius ! 
 
 " Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, 
 Lord of the lion-heart and eagle eye !" &c., 
 
 Gray, who was honourably proud, as well as fastidious, would 
 never expose himself to the insolence ot rank. 
 
 It is the business of the poet to carry us into a visionary 
 and more beautifid world according with our desires, rather 
 than with cur experience. This is the inventive quality neces- 
 sary to a poet, although so many modern writers of poetry fall 
 short of it. In the major part of our popular poetry ; we find no 
 great and affecting truths embodied and set forth in interesting 
 and natural fiction ; no noble and unaffected characters in conflict 
 upon the tempestuous sea of life! W'c find instead, a glittering 
 simile, or tinsel mctaiilior ; a i)uling. sickly sentiment, or a pas- 
 sionate and burning tear, all brought out in the most polished forms 
 of fashionable slang golden goods no doubt, and of great demand 
 
 * Literary Char.ii.tcr.~lJ'lracli
 
 4 The Nature of Poetry. 
 
 in the market- but soon forgotten. Poetry, then, is not a progressive 
 art, like the improvementsof social life. It does not depend on exter- 
 nal circumstances,it does not follow in the train of knowledge, nor have 
 any connection with the progressions of time; its origin is the heart, 
 its stimulant the imagination: nature is the poet's teacher, his school 
 the universe. It is the art of employing words in such a manner 
 as to produce an illusion on the imagination. Thus Shakespeare 
 has described it : 
 
 "As imagination bodies forth 
 The fonns of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing, 
 A local habitation and a name," 
 
 It may be said that these wild flights of genius, have as little 
 solidity, and are as little serviceable to the practical duties of life : 
 nay, that they withdraw, exhaust and derange the mind. On the 
 contrary, they encourage the mightier enterprises of grand spirits : 
 and they sometimes rouse even the sluggish and the dull. 
 
 There is nothing unnatural in the most brilliant,most extraordinary 
 and most visionary flights of Shakespeare ; they may not in all 
 cases be such as reason and experience admit, but they are such 
 as an excited imagination give credence to even in the very Fairy 
 scQnt?, oi the Mtdsj/mvier A'tghfs Drearn, which are all founded 
 on popular superstitions ! Great genius therefore is always in 
 earnest : it knowsnothingof technical creations ; of a poetical world 
 different from a real world ; of feelings assumed for poetry, yet in- 
 consistent with life; of sentiments, delicacies and refinements, un- 
 like what the author himself, or any one less has ever felt, )et set 
 up as proper for poetical representation. 
 
 It is these high flights of imagination ; these delineations of a 
 more beautiful world, which the poet creates for himself; a state of 
 feeling not congenial to the coarse habits of common life. In others 
 it is not natural either in society or in solitude : we no more feel or 
 believe it when alone, than in the bustle of company; without poetical 
 genius it is a mere pretence- which no more ic-jiresents what has 
 actual dominion over the mind and heart, than guld-leaf represents 
 the solid golden ore. We may ''hope, though hope be lost," and
 
 The Nature of Poetry. 5 
 
 believe against reason ; but we must not put forth, not only what 
 reason rejects, but what unforced imagination never suggests ; what 
 the imagination as little confides in as the reason. It is the poet's 
 business to embody all the more magnificent and more affecting 
 phenomena of our intellectual nature : but it is as false in poetry as 
 in science, to invent and viiscolour phenomena. Delusive affec- 
 tations bring poetry into contempt, and sink it down to the rank of 
 an art calculated only to mislead. The true poet paints what hard 
 experience will seldom justify ; but he paints what a passionate and 
 noble mind, in a state of high intellectual emotion, expects and 
 believes ; he describes things, not perhaps as they are, but as they 
 appear to him under the temperament to which he has been raised. 
 Artificial writers are cold-blooded, cold-hearted men, who sub- 
 stitute mechanism for inspiration ; and who, therefore, always 
 mistake extravagance for grandeur or beauty. It is as much the 
 business of the poet to be true to nature and actual existences, as 
 it is of the philosopher : 
 
 "Awake and faithful to its wonted fires." 
 Those sickly pretensions to sentiment of which I speak, which are 
 only fit for dealers in false and simulated refineinent, are worse than 
 the mere hard fruits of the head, untouched by ihe heart. It is this 
 artificial and affected invention that fatigues in ordinary poets. 
 They represent a set of sickly sentiments and images, which are 
 not only different from life, but more insipid than life states of 
 mind which neither themselves, nor any one else ever experienced. 
 What they write is no part of their character, a tone merely assum- 
 ed ; nothing but a piece of dull and laboured mechanism, fineer 
 work, and flowers of coloured paper, and gold-leaf ! Pope could 
 see the distinction when he spoke of Cowley. 
 
 "I'orgot his Epic, nay his Lyric AKl' 
 Yet still we love the language of ihc iieaki'."' 
 
 Nothing can be more true than the lines from Horace : 
 
 -Mediocribus esse poetis, 
 
 Non Dii, non homines, uon concessere columnii 
 
 "Poetry is a creation^'' Tiie ;//r?/'t'r/V?/i- of poetry are in nature, 
 
 but not poetry itself. The etymology of tiie word poet is from the
 
 6 The Nature of Poetry. 
 
 Greek word {ifniy\r-t\% poi^tes) whence pacta and poet is literally, 
 maker ; and maker it is well known was once the current term for 
 poet in our language ; and to write verses was to make. Sir Philip 
 Sydney, speaking of the Greek word, says, ''wherein I know not 
 whether by luck or wisdom, we Englishmen have met with the 
 Greeks in calling him maker''"*' 
 
 So Spenser renders it in his "Shepherds Calender.'' 
 
 "The god of Shepherds, Tityntis, is dead 
 Who taught me homely, as I can, to viake,''^\ 
 
 This however means, without doubt, makers of verse according 
 to measure, not creators of ideal objects. It is not simply verse 
 that is essential to poetry, but the true and impartial represent- 
 ing of virtue and vice, so as to instruct mankind in matter of 
 great importance. Verse is only the shape by which it is bounded, 
 "its adjunct, not its living principle." Abilities are common ; genius 
 is rare. We meet every day with those who apprehend with 
 quickness and apply with judgiHent. Knowledge, experience, 
 wisdom, must unite with a rich imagination, and a familiarity with 
 all the deeper and finer movements of the heart. It is by imagination 
 that the poet fashions out of existing materials, new conceptions 
 and ideas, which become intelligible to the reader through his 
 sympathies and sensibility, though not always justifiable by the 
 rules of logic and reason. This is the property of the imagination, 
 and thus of the poet. "Its province is to select qualifications and 
 circumstances from a variety of different objects ; and by combining 
 and disposing these, to form a new creation of its own. In this 
 appropriated sense of the word, it coincides with what some authors 
 have called Creath'e or Poetical Imagination^ % Hobbes says, 
 "The brain, or spirit therein, having been stirred by divers objects, 
 composeth an imagination of divers conceptions, that appeared 
 single to the sense. As, for example, the sense showeth at one 
 time the figure oi a vioiuitain, and at anotlier time the colour of 
 gold ; but the imagination afterwards hath them both at once in a 
 "golden mountain." i| Imagination is a complex power, not a simple 
 faculty. It implies Conception, to represent those scenes in nature 
 
 * Defence of Potsy. % Outlines of Moral Pliilosophy, D. Stewart, 
 
 1 Shep. Cal. June Spenser. i Essay on Human Nature. Chap. 3 Hobbes.
 
 The Nature of Poetry, 7 
 
 out of which the poet is to make his selection ; Abstraction^ to 
 separate the materials selected, from the circumstances connected 
 with them in his memory; and Judgment to direct their combination 
 It multiplies and divides and remodels. Emerson defines the imag- 
 ination to be, "the use which reason makes of the material world." 
 "By a few strokes," he says, " the poet delineates, as on the air, the 
 sun, the mountain, the camp, the city, the hero, the maiden; not 
 different from what we know them, but only lifted from the ground 
 and afloat before the eye. He unfixes the land and the sea, makes 
 them revolve around the axis of his primary thought, and disposes 
 them anew. Possessed himself by a heroic passion, he uses mat- 
 ters as symbols of it. The sensual man conforms thoughts to 
 things ; the poet conforms things to his thoughts. The one esteems 
 nature as rooted and fast ; the other, as fluid, and impresses his 
 being thereon. To him, the refractory world is ductile and flexible ; 
 he invests dust and stones with humanity, and makes them the 
 words of Reason." * 
 
 Macaulay says, " perhaps no person can be a poet or even enjoy 
 poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if anything which 
 gives so much pleasure ought to be called unsoundness." The 
 works of the poet, he calls, "the fruits of a fine frenzy." "Truth 
 indeed is essential to poetry ; but it is the truth of madness. The 
 reasonings are just, but the premises are false. After the first 
 suppositions have been made, everything ought to be consistent; but 
 those first suppositions require a deal of credulity which almost 
 amounts to a partial and temporary derangement of the intellect. 
 Hence of all people children are the most imaginative. They 
 abandon themselves without reserve to every illusion. Every image 
 which is strongly presented to their mental eye, produces on them 
 the effect of reality. No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is 
 ever affected by Hamlet or Lear, as a little girl is affected by the 
 story of Red Riding Hood. She knows that it is all false, that 
 wolves cannot sj^cak, that there are no wolves in England. Yet in 
 spite of her knowledge, she believes; she weeps; she trembles ; she 
 dares not go into a dark room, lest she should feel the teeth of the 
 
 ' Emerson's Essays. Vol. 2.
 
 8 The Nature of Poetry. 
 
 monster at her throat. Such is the despotism of the imagination 
 
 over uncultivated minds. 
 
 This imagination, notwithstanding, is different in different people 
 
 In Shakespeare it is bright and rapid as the lightning, in Milton 
 
 awful as collected thunder. Shakespeare possesses it beyond all 
 
 poets. He uses nature to embody any caprice or thought that is 
 
 uppermost in his mind. The remotest things in nature are brought 
 
 together, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the passions 
 
 of the poet. "The freshness of youth and love dazzles him with 
 
 its resemblance to morning. 
 
 " Take those lips away 
 Which so sweetly were foresworn : 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 Lights that do mislead the morn." 
 
 What depths of fancy also is contained in the well known line, 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank." 
 or when yocund day 
 
 " Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops." 
 
 How one thought sets his imagination soaring till he loses himself 
 in his new-born fancy! If I were to attempt to quote the manifold 
 passages of this kind in the poet's work, I should fill pages. 
 
 A poet then, must be endued with imagination, and with a genius 
 to express the signs of their passions whom he represents; and 
 make the dumb as it were to speak. He must mould into shape 
 the most abstract ideas and indefinite objects. It is the province 
 of the poet to delineate the qualities and passions of men, more 
 than their actions. Tiiat which is animate he must imbue with 
 life; the night must be ''clothed in a starry train," the sun must 
 be as "a giant rejoicing in its strength." He is not to describe 
 his subjects in common place language or delineate his cha- 
 racters as in prose. It must be the anger of an Achilles, the 
 piety of an /Eneas; but Anger and Piety are his subjects, not 
 Achilles and /Eneas. And this idiosyncracy the poet must bear 
 upon throughout his work ; piety must be the predominant 
 characteristic of /Eneas to the end, and revenge that of Achilles 
 Had the latter been less passionate than he was, Virgil well foresaw
 
 The Nature of Poetry. 9 
 
 that Hector had been killed and Troy taken at the first assault, 
 which had destroyed the beautiful contrivance of the Iliad;andthe 
 beautiful moral which it was his intention to convey in it, of pre- 
 venting discord amongst confederate princes, would have been 
 spoiled. 
 
 Poetry, then, may be defined ^^as the latiguage of passion or of 
 enlivened imagination, fortned most commonly into regular fium- 
 bers according to the getiius of every respecti^ie language or its 
 legitimate laws of 7>ersification." 
 
 Yet, although the word poet has always in its strictest sense ap- 
 plied to a writer of verse, or one whose language has been formed into 
 regular numbers, it cannot be considered as wholly peculiar to him. 
 A poet, in its highest sense, is one whose imagination and shaping 
 power can and does embody the forms of things unknown, and can 
 create realities out of airy nothings. And I shall not be wandering 
 from the general interpretation of the Greek word maker, when I 
 say, that this energy which is the highest heaven of invention, is 
 not entirely peculiar to a writer of verses. It may exist as vitally 
 and essentially in prose ; rhythm and metre are to this power as 
 two wings to a soul, investing it with the robes and resemblances of 
 a seraphim. Was not the wise man of Israel a poet, when he burst 
 forth, "Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tm'^h;co}ncly as Jcrusa- 
 h'm. terrible as an army with danncrsV Was not Jeremy Taylor a 
 poet when he prayed for humility ? "And yet 1 know thou resistest 
 the proud, and did'st cast the morning stars, the angels from heaven 
 into chains of darkness, 7vhcn they grcivgiddy and pfoi/d, walking 
 upon the battlonents of Heai'cn, bchchiino^ the glorious regions 
 which were about them ?" This power is the essence of all rightful 
 poetry, or in other words it is that without which poetry is not. 
 
 Rhythm then, is necessary to poetry; it is its principal feature, but 
 it does not apply wholly to verse. From the Circek word (rlnith- 
 mos ) a measured motion, it especially applies to poetry, but as the 
 Greeks taught in a somewhat altered form, no less, as I have said, 
 to excellent prose. Listen to a fine speaker or preacher, to Lord 
 Beaconsfield, or Spurgeon, and you will imagine tliathe is speak-
 
 10 The Nature of Poetry, 
 
 ing in ten-syllabic verse. Take Dickens' famous description of 
 the Battle of Hastings, or as it should be called Sangue lac or Sen 
 lac ffor it was not Hastings) ending with "and the three lions 
 kept watch o'er the field;" or take his Little Nell, "they laid 
 her down upon her little bed," and you will find the rhythmic beat 
 and pause so clear and distinct, that unless you are dull, you will 
 insensibly mark out the Iambic measure. In poetry, perfect rhythm 
 forms an important part; it must accompany poetical imagina- 
 tion. In verse the trochaic rhythm is perhaps the most common; 
 Shakespeare and Coleridge are abundant in every kind of skilfully 
 used rhythm, whereas Byron very commonly fails, as Coleridge's 
 fine ear at once detected. Read the "Ancient Mariner," and 
 "Christabel," of Coleridge, and revel delightfully in the rolling music 
 of the verse. Byron is a poet by force of his genius, not by force 
 of his art. It is only when his soul is moved that his cadence and 
 rhythm are really fine and pure. But in the best parts of " Childe 
 Harold," and his songs "Maid of Athens," and "The Isles of Greece," 
 there may be found plenty of rhythm. 
 
 We arrive now, as to what is the object of poetry. We have 
 analysed its nature, it is necessary now to ascertain its property. 
 
 The prhnary aim of the poet is to please and move, without 
 touching the sensual, or using loose expressions, or in any-way 
 conveying to the mind immoral suggestions. It is this that has 
 partly destroyed the imaginative beauty of Byron. We do not find 
 it in Homer or Virgil. The only passage which comes near to it 
 at nil, is the adventure of the cave, where Dido and ^neas were 
 driven by the storm ; yet even there the poet pretends a marriage 
 before the consummation, and Juno herself was present at it. 
 Dryden speaking of it, says, "There is not an expression in it which 
 a Roman matron might not read without ablush. Besides, the poet 
 passes it over as hastily as if he were afraid of staying in the cave 
 with two lover.'?, and of being a witness to their actions. 
 
 To imitate nature well is the perfection of poetry; it is the most 
 important property of that art to find out what is most beautiful in 
 nature. That poem whicli comes nearest to the resemblance of
 
 The Nature of Poetry. 11 
 
 nature is the best ; it does not follow however that that which 
 pleases most is the best. It is easy to put together extravagant 
 and improbable combinations ; but to pursue the course of nature 
 in her grand and affecting features is quite a different task ! To 
 depend, not on surprise, but on force, is that for which few 
 are qualified. Dryden says, "Our depraved appetites and igno- 
 rance of the arts often mislead our judgments, and cause us to 
 take that for true imitation of nature, which has no resem- 
 blance of nature. To inform our judgments and to reform our 
 tastes, rules were invented, that by them we might discern when 
 nature was imitated, and how nearly. The imitation of nature is 
 therefore constituted as the general rule of poetry."* And it is 
 only in men of genius that we can get a true representation of these 
 things, for by the mystery of his genius the poet lives and moves in 
 that which he represents. It is this that constitutes the real enthusi- 
 asm by which we discover a true poet. They themselves cannot 
 perceive it when under its influence, as the eye which sees all things 
 cannot view itself. "From an enchanted man,'' remarks D'Israeli, 
 "we must not expect a narrative of his enchantment; for if he could 
 speak to us reasonably like one of ourselves, in that case he would 
 be a man in a state of disenchantment, and then would perhaps 
 yield us no better account than we may trace by our own observa- 
 tions."t Milton, languishing amidst the freshness of nature in Eden, 
 felt all the delights of those elements which he was creating. The 
 fierce and wild Dante, amidst the abysses of his Inferno, must often 
 have been startled by its horrors. 
 
 That which cannot be read and approved Ijy the soundest and 
 strongest understanding is not genuine: if it cannot be read in our 
 most sober moments, in those when we are seeking wisdom, it is not 
 genuine. And with respect to this, let me speak of one au- 
 thor, one of our eminent poets, whose works arc a great stuuy 
 Wordsworth. All the faculties of the mind are exercised in iho 
 pioduction of liis i)rincipal pieces. Intensity and orJyinality of 
 thought characteiizu him ; and the reason as well as the imagina- 
 tion is instructed by the perusal of his conipusitiuns. They have 
 
 ' Drydcii's Traiihlalion of l)u I'rcsnoy's Work^. 
 t Literary Cliarnctcr Disraeli.
 
 12 The Nature of Poetry. 
 
 the grand ingredient of earnestness, the actual visions of a retired, 
 peculiar, and deeply-meditating imagination : the associations 
 which the poet paints require a long discipline, a studied bent; but 
 they are conformable to its nature, and such as perpetual musing 
 can produce in one of high gifts, high morals, and high attainments. 
 Such emanations from a seer, who has spent his days on the bosom 
 of lakes, amid the inspiring sounds of solitary woods, and high 
 mountains, are like a new spring of living water from the rock, 
 throwing forth freshness and verdure, where all before was trodden 
 and barren. 
 
 The poet has also to observe uniformity in the general structure 
 of his work. A venerable pile of Gothic architecture, ^iewed at a 
 distance or after the sober hand of time has stripped it of the false 
 glare of meretricious ornament, communicates a sensation, which 
 the same object under a close inspection in its highest degree of 
 perfection was incapable of producing ; when the attention solicited 
 by a thousand mi?iiitia' with which the hand of caprice and super- 
 stition had crowded its objects, was unavoidably diverted from the 
 contemplation of the main design. The poet has to use propriety 
 in the ornament with which he gilds his poem, as the overcrowding 
 of the inferior component parts must be evident to the most 
 superficial observer. Originality of sentiment, vivacity of thought, 
 and loftiness of language may conduct the reader to the end of a 
 work, tliough awkwardly designed and injudiciously constructed ; 
 whilst the incessant adherence to poetic rule would be found 
 insufficient to compensate for meanness of thought or vulgarity of 
 expression. Nothing can be more directly adverse to the spirit of 
 poetry, considered under one of its definitions as an universal lan- 
 guage, than whatever contines it to the comprehension of a single 
 people or a particuhir period of time. Drydenis strongly tinctured 
 witli the taste of the times; and those Delilahs of the Town, to use 
 his own expression, arc plentifully scattered throughout his works, 
 esteemed in the present age for those passages only in which 
 he ventured to oppose liis own taste to that of his readers, and 
 which have already i)assed the ordeal of unmerited censure.
 
 The Nature of Poetry. 13 
 
 Nor is that narrowness of conception which confines a work to 
 the comprehension of a particular portion of individuals, less repre- 
 hensible or less repugnant to the essential principles of poetry. Of 
 this defect innumerable instances occur in Dryden; and we cannot 
 but contemplate with regret, an eminent genius constrained by 
 exigencies to postpone the powers of his own taste, and submit 
 his judgment to the arbitrary dominion of a prevailing mode. 
 In Dryden we meet with expressions and allusions drawn from the 
 meanest mechanical employments, which would be unintelligible 
 to a foreigner, who was unacquainted only with the learned parts 
 of our language. 
 
 The poetry of ruder ages is seldom distinguished for elegance 
 of diction or variety of imagery ; yet there are advantages so strongly 
 peculiar to it as must raise it high in the esteem of all admirers of 
 nature, while yet simple and unsophisticated. The state of the arts 
 as yet rude, rendered it impossible to deviate from simplicity. The 
 state of the arts being then but faintly delineated, no idea of 
 superiority could be obtained but what arose from personal quali- 
 fications, and poetic praise unprostituted to power and wealth, 
 was then the genuine tribute of gratitude and admiration. That 
 property was in a very unsettled state in the days of Homer, may 
 be gathered from numberless passages in his writings: among 
 the calamities which awaited an aged father. on the death of his 
 only son, the plunder of his possession is mentioned ; and Achilles 
 laments, that life, unlike c\eiy other human possession, was not to 
 be obtained by theft. Accordingly, in tlie epithets which accompany 
 tlic name of each licro, tlirough tlic Iliad and Odyssey, we see no 
 allusions to the adventitious circumstances of wealth and power, if 
 we except the title of lord of lich AfyccNcv, sumclimes though rarely 
 bestowed on Agamemnon; while the subtlety of Ulysses, the 
 swiftness of Achilles, the courage and strength of Diomed, are 
 mentioned as often as the names of these heroes occur. 
 
 I have said the primary o/ijcct of poetry is to please, but this 
 is not the jv/t' object of ihc art. In Aristotle's view,, this was the 
 great end of the art, and of all its branches; the aim however is also
 
 14 TJie Nature of Poetry. 
 
 to instruct, although Aristotle does not anywhere give any idea that 
 utility and instruction are the end of poetry. It may, however, in 
 any case be rendered useful, improving, and instructive it ought, 
 to be made the latter; for though the poet addresses himself to the 
 imaginations and passions, he may through them, lead to in- 
 struction and information. True poetry has in it that kind of 
 utility which good men find in their Bibles. It enobles the senti- 
 ments, enlarges the affections, kindles the imagination, and gives 
 to us an enjoyment of a life in the past and in the future, as well as 
 in the present. Vaughan says, " the poet and the Christian, 
 have alike a hidden life: worship in the vital element of each." 
 And Schiller has truly said. "Poetry can be to the man, what love 
 is to the hero. It can neither counsel him, nor smite with him, nor 
 perform any labour for him, but it can bring him up to be a hero, 
 can summon him to deeds, and arm him with strength for all that 
 he ought to be." As I have said in the chapter on tha Greek 
 poets, Homer wrote his Iliad on purpose to teach mankind 
 the mischief of discord among chiefs, and his Odyssey to prove 
 to them the advantages of staying at home to take care of their 
 families; Piccolomini in particular. In the case of didactic poetry 
 the principal aim is instruction, although verse is the medium which 
 the poet employs. The war songs of the ancients were written to 
 stimulate the soIdiers;the bitter but wholesome Iambic was wont to 
 make villainy blush; the satire was to invite men to laugh at folly; 
 the comedian chastised the common errors of life; and the 
 tragedian made kings afraid to be tyrants ^and tyrants to be their 
 own tormenters. 
 
 The great poet does not spend life in executing microscopic copies 
 of the small parts of nature. He makes the universe the scaiTold 
 for his ideal. He fills the world with thoughts on pilgrimage to 
 build shrines of his own, as well as to visit those which time has 
 consecrated. It is his office not merely to show to the mind its 
 workings, to hold up to the reader a reflection of his own feelings 
 but also to display before him things that by no other means could 
 be revealed wonders of that of which he would never have dreamed.
 
 The Nature of Poetry, 1 5 
 
 Hence its power toenoble and instruct. To cut this off from poetry 
 is to confound it with metaphysics. Metaphysics shows man what 
 he is poetry what ha is, and what he should be. The one classi- 
 fies his powers, the other educates them. 
 
 In the old days the poets were the divines of the people, and 
 exercised a kind of spiritual autliority amongst them. Verse in 
 those days was the sacred style, the style of oracles and laws. The 
 vows and thanks of the people were recommended to their God in 
 songs and hymns. With what delight are we touched in hearing 
 the stories of Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, and ^neas ? Because in 
 their characters we have wisdom, honour, fortitude, and justice, 
 set before our eyes. It was Plato's opinion that if a man could see 
 virtue, he would be strangely enamoured on her person, which 
 is the reason why Horace and V^irgil have continued so long in 
 reputation, because they have drawn her in all the charms of poetry. 
 No man is so senseless of natural impressions as not to be affected 
 with the pastorals of the ancients, when, under the stories of wolves 
 and sheep, they describe the misery of people under hard masters 
 and their happiness under good. 
 
 To conclude this chapter a glowing morality of bosom and 
 conscience ; an emulation of the magnificent desires, and profound 
 regrets that alternately rule the loftier endowments of our nature ; 
 a habit of forming into shape, and putting into action, the possi- 
 bility of grand and propitious or tremendously afflicting circum- 
 stances of some extraordinary fate are the fountains of poetry. As 
 Emerson has it " the poet is the man without imjicdimcnt, who 
 sees and handles that which others dream of, traverses the whole 
 scale of experience, and is representative of man, in virtue of 
 being the largest power to receive and impart." 
 
 Poetry makes man 7ciscr by causing truth to speak to him in a 
 language that ap])eals to his own nature, not merely to a part of it, 
 and which reaches the heart as well astheintcllert. It makes him 
 bcftcr by revealing as none else can do, the native loveliness of 
 generosity and patriotism, affection and self-sacrifice.
 
 16 The progress of Poetry hi the Middle Ages. 
 
 CHATTER 11. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF POETRY IN THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 It was after the conquest of Greece that the arts and sciences 
 first began to be cherished and cuUivated with assiduity, and 
 that the military genius of the Romans first became tempered 
 by something of a literary spirit. It is from this period that we 
 date the era of poetry, and the works of Virgil, Lucretius and 
 Horace. But little literary advance was made, till after the death 
 of the tyrant Domitian, and the subsequent reign of Adrian. Even 
 then, though Adrian was himself learned, learning was slow in its 
 progress. He was jealous of the literary fame of others ; that it is 
 said, he preferred Ennius to Virgil, and even the names of Homer 
 and Plato excited his disgust. With his predecessor Trajan it was 
 different. Bred from his earliest youth to the profession of arms, 
 he had little time to acquire learning ; but unlike Adrian, he had 
 both judgment to distinguish, and munificence to reward, those 
 who possessed it. 
 
 This age, however, formed the most brilliant era of poetry, for we 
 date from it Virgil, TibuUus, Horace and Ovid, Propertius and 
 Livy. It was not until death had consigned the poets of the 
 Augustan age to the grave, that the decline of poetry commenced, 
 Then came the period when human nature was at its lowest ebb, 
 and had relapsed into the barbarism from which the superior 
 wisdom of the first race of man had raised it. 
 
 Berington says, "This period was distinguished by four epic 
 poets, Lucan, Valerius Flaccus, Statius and Silius Italicus, on 
 whose merits various judgments have been pronounced. Lucan 
 died when in his twenty-seventh year, and in the reign of Nero. 
 He had imprudently contended with the tyrant himself for the 
 poetic crown, and more imprudently engaged in a conspiracy 
 against his life. The premature age of the poet, readily accounts 
 for the imperfections of his work ; and he might have approached 
 nearer the excellence of \'irgil, had he not aspired to eclipse his 
 fame.* The eloquent Ouintilian describes him, as, ardent and 
 
 * Herington's Literary Hiitorv
 
 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 17 
 
 impetuous, great in his sentiments, but more fit to be ranked 
 amongst orators than poets." * 
 
 The others are of less interest and little read, except by antiqua- 
 ries. Undoubtedly Statius possessed the fire requisite to form the 
 poet, and others of that period; but they languished for those 
 opportunities, or that patronage, which calls forth the powers of 
 the soul. Genius languishes under the nipping blasts of oppression. 
 The iron sway of slavery crushes the soul as well as the body. 
 
 " Animuin qiioque prxgravat una 
 
 Atqtte affig.t humo divina partictilain num." HORACE. 
 " Weighs down the portion of celestial birth. 
 
 The breath of God and fixes it to earth." Franxis. 
 
 The Augustan age was no doubt the great era of Roman litera- 
 ture ; and under the commonwealth the advances in the arts were 
 slow and difficult. The Romans were too deeply engaged in their 
 foreign and domestic wars, and the trumpet drowned the notes of 
 the lyre. It was the age of conquest and patriotism, and the genius 
 most suitable to the age, shone with distinguished lustre. The 
 military merit was the only certain road to the dignities of the 
 republic. 
 
 When Rome was subjected to Ctesar, her empire extended over 
 the then known world. The Grecian elegance had softened her 
 rougher genius ; and science had polished the ferocity of her man- 
 ners. The laurel of conquest faded before the olive of peace ; and 
 literary merit became the object of attention. Augustus only 
 established that, of which others had laid the foundation: Ennius, 
 Terence, Lucretius, Catullus, and Sallust were prior to him ; and 
 the Roman eloquence, which was born, and which died with 
 Cicero, sunk under the malignity of his influence. Certainly the 
 Augustan age produced the best poets; yet eloquence fled, and 
 after the death of Cicero, degenerated. " Poetry flourished only 
 for a few years, and i)robably owed its temporary vigour to the mean 
 prostitution of its talents ; in flattering the enslaver of his country 
 and the tyrant of the world." 
 
 Greece, however, unlike Rome, produced a scries of learned men ; 
 she did not have to struggle against the jealousy of surrounding 
 
 " Instit. 1. X. c. I.
 
 1 8 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 
 
 states. Her internal dissensions were her only enemies, and these 
 rather promoted than impeded the powers of her genius. 
 
 The early attempts of the poets in Greece have not reached us, 
 probably on account of the great commotion which took place in 
 that country after the Trojan war. In less than a century after, 
 while Tisamenus the son of Orestes reigned in Mycaense, the 
 Dorians invaded the Peloponnesus. The civilization which was 
 just beginning to increase was then destroyed. Many of the old 
 inhabitants were driven into exile, and passed over into Asia, 
 where they occupied considerable regions along the shores. Some 
 of the poems which were admired in their time might probably 
 have been taken with them in their banishment. By degrees, how- 
 ever, the Peloponnesus recovered from the effects of their invasion, 
 and the Greeks returned to their country in order to seek refuge 
 from the Persian arms. 
 
 When civilization had again advanced in Greece, much curiosity 
 was excited respecting the poets who had flourished before their 
 exile, and the want of authentic history relating to them was filled 
 by the aid of fiction, while the obscure traditions remaining of 
 early bards, were modelled so as to gratify the national pride. 
 Very little credit however is to be given to the details of Grecian 
 history where the poets are concerned, before the era of the 
 Olympians. If so little was known of Homer, how can we give 
 very implicit belief to the tales respecting Linus, Orpheus, Museeus, 
 Eumolpus, and others who lived at a much recent period, the 
 date of Linus being fixed by Archbishop Usher, 1280 years before 
 the Christian Era. 
 
 To the Peloponnesian war we owe the history of Thucydides, 
 the funeral orations of Pericles and Plato, and to the treachery of 
 Philip, the sublime invectives of Demosthenes : but when tlie 
 conquering eagle of Rome enslaved the country under the pretence 
 of protecting it, from that moment her genius withered ; and the 
 only writers she afterwards produced, Polybius in particular, in- 
 stead of recording the glories of their native country, celebrated the 
 exploits of Rome. Rome, therefore, now the uncontrolled mistress
 
 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 19 
 
 of the world, was expected to excel in arts as well as arms ; under 
 Augustus she flourished for a time, but under the succeeding 
 Emperors, she relapsed into the ignorance, though she possessed 
 not the virtues of the consular state. 
 
 Under the happy reigns of Vespasian, Trajan, and the better 
 Emperors, the short-lived ray of returning freedom awaked her 
 from her lethargy ; and Juvenal, the Plinies, and Tacitus, are 
 enrolled in the last list of Roman worthies. The desire for the 
 acquisition of learning certainly dates from Cicero, from the 
 time when he poured forth his feelings in eloquent oratory. It 
 was then that men, " swallowed so thirstily that delicious beverage 
 from the magical cup of literature." This illustrious orator carried 
 his favorite pursuit to that pitch of eloquence which was never 
 surpassed in any age. 
 
 Nothing important in the way of advance in literature and 
 poetry occurred until the eleventh century, although they still 
 found admirers and were studied. But about this period, says 
 Berington, "poets, or rather versifiers were numerous in every 
 convent, whilst no subject appeared to be intractable for their 
 poetical versatility." 
 
 At the commencement of the thirteenth century when the 
 modern languages were first introduced, we find springing up in 
 France the Trouvers and Troubadours, and in Britain the Minstrels 
 or bards. The Troubadours were a race of minstrels in the South of 
 France,composers of erotic or sentimental poems ; and the romancers 
 called Trouvcurs or finders, in the North of France, culled and 
 compiled their domestic tales on Fabliaux, Dits, Conte, or Lais. 
 Ellis says, "They were a romantic race of ambulatory poets; 
 military and rcligous subjects their favorite themes ; yet bold and 
 satirical on princes, and even on priests: severe moraliscrs, though 
 libertines in their verse ; so refined and cliastc in their manners 
 that few husbands were alarmed at the entliUbiastic language they 
 addressed to their wives. The most romantic incidents arc told 
 of their loves. But love and its grosser passion were clearly dis- 
 tinguished from each other in tlieir singular intercourse with their
 
 20 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 
 
 "Dames." Theobjectsof their mind were separated from the object 
 of their senses ; the virtuous lady to whom they vowed their hearts, 
 was in their language styled "/ dame de ses petisees^' a very distinct 
 being from their other mistress. Such was the Platonic Chimera 
 that charmed in the age of chivalry, the Laura of Petrarch might 
 have been no other than 'the lady of his thoughts.'* These 
 Trouveurs, however, were certainly the most eminent narrative 
 poets. No people had a better right to be the founders of chiv- 
 alric poems than the Normans. They were the most ener- 
 getic generation of modern men. "By the conquest of England, 
 chivalry rose to its full growth as an institution, by the circumstance 
 of martial zeal being enlisted imder the banners of superstition." 
 And these constituted a source of description to the Romancers or 
 Trouveurs, to which no exact counterpart is to be found in the 
 heroic poetry of antiquity. 
 
 Meiieirier, vieiiestral, or minstrel was he "who accompanied his 
 song by a musical instrument, both the words and the melody being 
 occasionally furnished by himself, and occasionally by others." t 
 These bards we know were reverenced from the earliest ages, by 
 all the inhabitants of Europe, whether of Celtic, or Gothic race. 
 We are told by ancient and modern writers, how that their skill 
 was considered as something divine; that kings solicited their at- 
 tendance, and loaded tliem with honours and rewards. The word 
 minstrel though not used in England before the Norman Conquest, 
 had long before that time been adopted in France. So early as 
 the eighth century " Menestral"" we are told, was a title given to 
 the Maestro di Capclla of I'epin, the father of Charlemagne. 
 
 Although jNIinstrclsy was probably never extinct, for a long time 
 after tlie conquest, it may be supposed to have sunk to the lowest 
 ebb. Campbell, in his Bssay on English Poetry, says, ' No human 
 pursuit is more sensible than poetry, to national pride or mortifi- 
 cation; and a race of pcasrints like the Saxons, struggling for bare 
 subsistence, under all the dependence and without the protection 
 of the feudal system, were in a state the most ungenial to feelings 
 of poetical enthusiasm.'"' The harp was no doubt the instrument 
 
 Specimens ol'tlie Eai'ly Englihh Mttrkal Romances. 
 * Ritson. W.
 
 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 21 
 
 with which minstrels accompanied theii song. Chappell tells us, 
 "That the harp was the common instrument of the Anglo-Saxons, 
 might be inferred from the very word itself, which is of genuine 
 Gothic origin, and was current among every branch of that people, 
 viz., Anglo-Saxon hearps and hearpa ; Iceland harpa and heurpa 
 Danes and Beltic harpe ; German, harpffe Galic haipe ; Spanish 
 harpa ; Italian arpa. In the Erse its name is crivth. That it 
 was also the favorite musical instrument of the Britons and other 
 nothern nations in the middle ages, is evident from their laws, and 
 various passages in their history. By the laws of Wales, a harp 
 was one of the three things that were necessary to constitute a 
 gentleman, or a free-man. A gentleman's harp was not liable to 
 be seized for debt.* 
 
 Minstrelsy continued as far as the reign of Elizabeth, towards 
 the end of the sixteenth century, but the honour that attached to 
 the earlier bards wore off; they lost the protection of the wealthy, 
 and had dwindled into mere singers of ballads. We are told that they 
 lost all credit and sunk so low in the public opinion,that in 1597, the 
 thirty-ninth year of the reign of Elizabeth, a statute was passed by 
 which "minstrels wandering abroad" were included among "rogues 
 vagabonds and sturdy beggars." This act seems to have put an 
 end to the profession. Few of the rhymes of these minstrels have 
 reached us. Percy says, in his "Essay on the Ancient Minstrels," 
 that "so long as the minstrels subsisted they seem never to have 
 designed their rhymes for literary publication, and probably never 
 committed them to writing themselves. The copies which Jtre pre- 
 served were doubtless taken down from their mouths."? We are told 
 by Campbell that, ''The minstrels or those who wrote| for them, 
 translated or imitated Norman romances ; and in so doing enriched 
 the language with many new words which they borrowed from the 
 originals, cither from want of corresponding terms in ^thcir own 
 vocabulary, or from the words appearing to be more agreeable." We 
 learn also that after the conquest, popular ballads of the English in 
 praise oftheirherocs,were sung about the strect,and William of Mal- 
 msbury in the twelth century, continues to make mention of them. As 
 
 ' Chappell "On Popular Music." p. 37. 
 
 X Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,
 
 22 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 
 
 these minstrels gradually wore out a new kind of ballad writers 
 succeeded " an inferior sort of minor poets, who wrote narrative 
 songs merely for the press.'' 
 
 This is not the first we hear of this kind of Minstrels. They 
 flourished in Greece from the earliest periods. Their name rhap- 
 sodists, compounded from paTmiv wStjv, /a join together or compose 
 verses, signified their occupation and character. They answered in 
 many respects to the Celtic bards. They chanted, sung, or recited 
 poems, chiefly,(at least in the earliest times)of their own composition, 
 at the tables of princes, and in public assemblies, and they were 
 held in high esteem and veneration. There were few arts at that 
 time, distinctly marked out as cultivated by peculiar classes, the 
 bard had a profession of his own, which was regarded as more 
 venerable than any other. His art was probably the parent of the 
 poetry of Greece. 
 
 About the year 1125 first appeared the fabulous history of Britain, 
 written in Latin by Geoffrey of Monmouth, or rather translated by 
 him into that language from the British or Armorica, which excited 
 a very general curiosity ; though it could only be read by scholars. 
 It was therefore as soon as might be, translated into French by 
 Robert Wace, a native of Jersey, and about thirty years later, that 
 is about 1185, a Saxon version was made by Layamon,a priest. 
 Berington says, ' both versions are metrical, and the Saxon was 
 taken or imitated not from the Latin, but from the French transla- 
 tion." The original copy was brought into England by Gualtier, 
 Archdeacon of Oxford, ai-.d committed to the care of Geoftrey. 
 The translation is allowed to have been executed by him with a 
 certain purit}', but with little fidelity, as many variations and addi- 
 tions sufficiently prove. * 
 
 In the thirteenth century, the number of writers increased, and 
 the transition from the Saxon into the English language was 
 complete, but no impro\-enient is seen in the vein of poetry. 
 The description of the land of Cokaine, a translation also, probably. 
 from the Frrnch, pre->ent5 us with a satire on the monastic orders, 
 of which, nutwithbtanding the vi\acity of the subject, there is 
 
 ' Hibiory of Lii>; PolL Dij^jcrl. i.
 
 The progress of Poetry vi the Middle Ages. 23 
 
 nothing attractive in the style, nor interesting in the imagery."* 
 Hickes places the land of Cockayne or Cokaine, just after the con- 
 quest, although the language of it is comparatively modern, for it 
 contains allusions to pinnacles in buildings which were not intro- 
 duced till Henry the Third's reign. The following is an example: 
 
 " There is a well-fair abbey, 
 Of white monke's, and of grey ; 
 There beth bowers, and halls, 
 All of pasties beth the walls, 
 Of flesh, of fish, and a rich meat. 
 The like fullest that man may eat, 
 Flouren-cakes beth the shingles all 
 Of Churchy cloister, bowers and hall, 
 The pinnes (pinnacles) beth fat puddings, 
 Rich meat to princes and kings, 
 All is common to young and old. 
 To stout and stern, meek and bold. 
 
 The Germans had also been improving their language, chiefly 
 by the means of the poets, called Minnesingers ; their poetry 
 differed little from that of England or France; they were princi- 
 pally subjects of chivalry. Latin poetry, however, claimed the 
 first place. The harsh, and rugged dialects of the more modern 
 times were not so fit to be adapted to tlie harmony which verse 
 requires, and thus it \i'''^s that at this period there sprung up so 
 many imitators of its style, especially in Italy, The Aiexandreid, 
 a poem founded on the history of Quintus Curtius, in ten books, 
 attained great popularity about this time.* Joseph of Exeter lived 
 in this century. He was the author of two heroic poems, one on 
 the Trojan U'ar, which Berington says, " is imitated rather than 
 translated from the Greek of Dorus I'hrygius: " the other on the 
 IVar of Anlicch or the tliird Crusade under Richard. Alexander 
 Neckham and Peter de Blois were also poetical writers in this cen- 
 tury. It was in the thirteenth century that rhymes were first 
 introduced into Latin verie. The language had ceased to be 
 generally read ; and the car, which was vitiated by the rugged 
 sounds of the modern dialects, had lost all relish for the harmoni- 
 ous simplicity of its prosody. Rhythm was then found necessary, 
 without which no verse could be distinguished, and as this miirht 
 
 History of Eii^. Poet. Dis-icrt ii.
 
 24 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 
 
 not always be deemed sufficient to mark the measure of a line, 
 recourse was had to rhyme, that is, the termination of verses by 
 a similar sound. It was then used in modern tongues without 
 bounds. This is the most reasonable manner in which to account 
 for the origin of rhyming at the termination of lines and verses, 
 though it has been differently attributed by various authors. 
 
 The Norman Muse must certainly be regarded as the earliest 
 preceptress of English poetry,and the use of rhyme and versifica- 
 tion. Turner, however says, that "the Anglo Saxon versification 
 possessed occasional rhyme," although we have no specimens of 
 ryhme in our language before the conquest. An amusing anecdote 
 is related by Goujet, as to the origin of ^d7?/'/i'-77>^.s-, or "Rhyming 
 Ends,'' "One Dulot a foolish poet, when sonnets were in demand, 
 had a singular custom of preparing the rhymes of these poems to 
 be filled up at his leisure. Having been robbed of bis papers, he 
 was regretting most the lost of three hundred sonnets : and his 
 friends were astonished that he had written so many which they 
 had never heard. They were blank sonnets he replied ; and ex- 
 plained the mystery by describing his botct-riines. The idea 
 appeared ridiculously amusing ; and it soon became fashionable 
 to collect the most difficult rhymes and fill up the lines.'" * 
 
 We pass now into the fourteenth century; to Dante the greatest 
 of our Italian poets, and Francis Petrarcahis contemporary. The 
 taste of poetry in this century, for which the public mind had been 
 prepared by the writings of Dante ascended to a pitch of enthusi- 
 astic admiration. It was Francis Petrarca who rescued his country's 
 name from obscurity, and rendered it the admiration of Europe. 
 The envied excellence to which he raised the poetry of Italy while 
 the best specimeiis of the art in the other countries had a rude and 
 barbarous appearance constitute the basis of the highest praise. 
 "To Petrarca, was principally due the restoration of letters to 
 Italy, and through Italy to the other realms of Europe. " The name 
 of the classical writers had almc st died out, and the various accounts 
 of them were miserably confounded, until Petrarca restored it by 
 his diligent and laborious collection of the works of the Ancients. 
 
 Goujet s Bib, fr. xvi. p. i8i.
 
 The progress of Poetry in the Middle Ages. 25 
 
 This leads us to Geoffrey Chaucer, whose writings obtained so 
 great celebrity, though little is known of his life. The English 
 language at this time progressed but slowly, but the practice 
 commenced of introducing words of Gallic origin, and Camp- 
 bell informs us, that at this time "the English language became 
 saturated with French." During this period France also had 
 advanced in poetry. It is from this time that they deduce 
 their long chain of poets, which knows no end. Yet the 
 poetry was inferior to that of Italy. The Troubadours had 
 been eclipsed by the genuine Italian muse, and the Trouveurs 
 had been succeeded by a more sober style. This seems to have 
 been the commencement of the allegorical style of modern poetry, 
 which first sprung up in France under William de Lonis, and 
 was afterwards taken up by Chaucer. The simple old narrative 
 romance had become too familiar at this time to invite him to its 
 beaten track. It was a class of poetry that we might say was too 
 light for so strong a genius, and it must be owned that his allegorical 
 poetry is often almost puerile. Yet we never lose entirely that 
 peculiar grace which distinguislies him, and no one who has read 
 his House of Fame, a.r\dLi\\Q Flower and Leaf, will regret that he 
 sported for a season in the field of allegory, Campbell says, "In 
 this new species of romance, we perceive the youthful Muse of the 
 language in love with mystical meanings, and forms of fancy; more 
 remote, if possible from reality, than those of the chivalrous fable 
 itself; and we could sometimes wish her back from her emblematic 
 castles, to the more solid ones of the elder fables ; but still she 
 moves in pursuit of those shadows with an impulse of novelty, and 
 an exuberance of spirit, that is not wholly without its attraction 
 and delight. Chaucer was happily afterwards drawn to the more 
 natural style of Boccaccio. 
 
 When the fifteenth century opened, almost all the countries, 
 especially Italy, were engaged in giving fresh life to tlie arts ; 
 books were everywhere sought, public libraries formed ; the 
 literary treasures of Greece were developed ; the names of Plato 
 and Aristotle, Demosthenes and Homer, rendered familiar to the 
 
 D
 
 26 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 public ear and eveiy man of learning became acquainted with their 
 language. This period also was an important one in Greek 
 poetry. Numerous academies were formed ; literary disputations 
 arose ; the affluent and the great eagerly contended for the honour 
 of being esteemed the patrons of genius and erudition. The 
 elegant arts, painting, sculpture, and architecture, rose at the same 
 time into life; and to crown the felicity of the period, the art of 
 printing was discovered in Germany. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE EARLY POETS OF GREECE. 
 
 In my last chapter, I have traced the gradual progress of poetry 
 up to the fifteenth century. The era which this period comprised 
 is without doubt the greatest in the poetical world, and I propose 
 in the two following chapters commenting briefly upon the poets 
 of that age. 
 
 Linus The earliest Greek poet of which we know anything at all 
 is Linus. He was a native of Chalcis, and to him are ascribed a 
 poem on the exploits of Bacchus in India ; a treatise on mythology, 
 and the invention of melody and rhythm. Suidas calls him the 
 lyric poet. A few fragments under his name are to be found in 
 Stobceus. He is the first of that chain of bards to whom the blind 
 reverence of Greece was directed. Euscbius speaks of him as 
 having flouiished before r^Ioses. Diodorus Siculus represents him 
 as being the inventor of music and poetry, or at least as having first 
 introduced them into Gieece. The Thcijans distinguished between 
 an earlier and later Linus. The latter, which is no doubt the 
 Greek poet, is said to have instructed Hercules in music, but to have 
 been killed by that hero. According to Diogenes Laertius, however, 
 he was killed by Apollo because he had presumed upon a musical 
 contest with that deity. It is a matter of doubt whether the name 
 designates one individual or several, therefore it is difiicult to im- 
 agine whether the various incidents apply to the poet or not. 
 
 Orpheus Next in the order of Greek poets stands Orpheus
 
 Orpheus. 27 
 
 perhaps the most celebrated before Homer and Hesiod. The 
 highest honours of a poet have been ascribed to him as well as 
 the fame of a musician. He is said to have enchanted with the 
 music of his lyre, not only the wild beasts, but the trees and 
 rocks upon Olympus, so that they moved from their places to 
 follow the sound of his golden harp. I take these to be only 
 a figurative mode of representing the power and" softening 
 effect of his music on the savage tribes among whom he wan- 
 dered, leading them from barbarism to civilization. I think the 
 great mixture of the supernatural in all the accounts of Orpheus 
 are no reason why we should attribute to them no foundation. 
 " He is represented as the parent of all that was afterwards 
 held most sacred in Greece : to have taught civilization and 
 founded religious rites ; to have gently beguiled men from the 
 savage to the social state : and to have harmonized at once the 
 language and the morals of the people among, whom he sung." 
 Cicero assorts thit no such periori ever existed, and Herodotus 
 seems to imply that no poets existed before Homer and Hesiod; 
 but Plato and Isociates sp;:akof himas a real and historical person, 
 and not a fabulous hero. No doubt, however, such a poet did exist 
 in the earlier times of Greece, though the tales respecting him are 
 not to be relied on. Linus is said to have been his master in poetry 
 and music. There is scarcely an art or accomplishment that had 
 any existence in rude times, which the Greeks do not attribute 
 to Orpheus. Plutarch tells us, that he was the author of all music, 
 except a few notes for the flute, which existed before him. The 
 invention of hexameter verse and the introduction of letters to 
 Greece have been ascribed to him. 
 
 Many accounts have been giv(.n as to the manner of his death; 
 and thcpiincipal account, though supurnatiiral like the rest is related 
 in a manner which has given occasion to some of the most beauti- 
 ful encomiums on the musical and poetical arts. Wc are told that 
 Kurydicc, flying from the attempts of Aiistcus on lier chastity was 
 bitten by a serpent and died. Her lover, disconsolate, determined 
 to follow her to the abodes of Hades, the regions of the dead. He
 
 28 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 entered Pluto's kingdom, where the charms of his lyre suspended 
 the torments of the damned, and melted by its strains, those whom 
 human entreaties had never moved before. All hell was ravished 
 by his melodies ; the shades came flocking round him; the wheel 
 of Ixion stood still; and he won back his wife from the most inex- 
 orable of all deities. His prayer, however was only granted upon 
 one condition, that he should not look back upon his restored wife till 
 he had arrived again in the regions of the living. He willingly prom- 
 ised to perform the condition ; but, at the very moment when they 
 were about to pass the fatal bounds, the poet, unable to restrain 
 the eagerness of love, looked back and saw Eurydice melt away 
 from him, never more to be granted to his prayers. Racked with 
 a deeper sorrow, hereturncd to the upper world, and found consola- 
 tion only in wandering with his lyre amidst the caves and desolate 
 places, and calling on her whom he had lost for ever. In vain the 
 Thracian women tried to engage his affections ; his grief for the 
 loss of Eurydice made him treat them with contempt. Enraged 
 at his coldness, they in revenge tore him to pieces under the excite- 
 ment of their Bacchanalian orgies, and threw his head into the 
 Hebrus, down which it rolled to the sea, and was borne across to 
 Lesbos, still calling on Eurydice. His lyre also was said to have been 
 carried to Lesbos, which expresses the historical fact that Lesbos 
 was then the great seat of music. The meaning of the allegory, 
 Tzetzes asserts, is that Orpheusby his great skill in physic snatched 
 his wife from the grave when her life was in extreme danger; while 
 the latter part of the account is only again showing the power of 
 his music as even capable of moving hell itself. 
 
 As to the works of Orpheus there are still subsisting poems which 
 have been ascribed to him. Many, said to have been his, were 
 current in the flourishing- period of Greek literature, but no doubt 
 the extant poems bearinir the names of Orpheus are forgeries of 
 Christian grammarians and philosophers of the Alexandrian 
 school ; though among the fragments are some genuine remains of 
 Orpheus known to the early Greek writers. The hymns have the 
 air of the highest antiquity of all the Orphic poems. They are
 
 MuscBus. Homer. 29 
 
 without doubc genuine, and contain the doctrines of Orpheus. 
 Hermann thinks the hymns more ancient than the Argonautica, 
 an epic poem, giving an account of the expedition into Cliolchis, 
 
 Mus^us was a follower of Orpheus. He is supposed to have 
 flourished from 1180 to 1200 years before the Christian era. He 
 seems to have been much less celebrated among the Greeks than 
 Orpheus, although Virgil gives him a very high rank amongst the 
 poets. It is asserted by Pausanias that the Museum at Athens was 
 so callf'd from his having been accustomed to retire there for 
 contemplation and poetical musing. His principal work was a 
 poetical account of the creation, and he is also said to have sung 
 the wars of the Titans. But nothing of bis woiks remain now, 
 Even in the time of Pausanias ; we are informed that a hymn to 
 Ceres was his only genuine composition then in existence. 
 
 Next to Musa?us, we turn with pleasure to him whose name has 
 been celebrated in every age in which poetry has been held in rever- 
 ence Ho.MKR. The sublime conceptions, vivid figures, interesting 
 narratives, and more th.m allthe exquisite style, and perfect common 
 sense of the Masonian bird, are beyon.l any praise which tliey can 
 receive in these pages fiom my feeble effoits. His work is a 
 prodigy : we must either suppose that he was proceeded by otlier 
 writers, wlio had brou^^ht poetry to the perfection, in whicli we find 
 il in his writings ; or that he himself created the poetry of his own 
 immortal works. With respect to the former supposition, it has 
 been given out by many that Homer did steal from the anterior 
 poets wliatever was most remarkable in tlie Iliad and Odyssey, 
 and it was argued as improbable that in a dai k age, one man should 
 have produced works wliicii no time has equalled. But the genius 
 which the Iliad exhibits is no pioof that it is not thd production of 
 a sin;4lc mind in a barbarous age. Poetry, as 1 have trica to show 
 in the earlier chaptcis of thia work, is not a piogrcssivc ait; it has 
 no connection with the progression of time and depends on no 
 external ciicumstances. 
 
 Homer was generally regarded by the ancients as the author of 
 the Iliad and Odyssey, and such continued to be the unwaveiing
 
 30 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 belief in modern times, till 1795, when the German Professor, Wolf 
 of Halle, wrote bis famous Prolegojiiena, ad Hoinenim, in which 
 he endeavoured to show that these two great works were not 
 complete poems, but small and separate epic songs celebrating 
 single exploits of the heroes; and that these lays were for the first 
 time written down and united by Pisistratus, the tyrant of Athens, 
 or his son. This opinion gave rise to long controversy which was 
 never settled and probably never will be. It was maintained about 
 the close of the seventeenth century by two French writers, Hedlin 
 and Perrault, but only received with derision. The honour was 
 given by many to Pisistratus or his son. Amongst others, Cicero 
 when he asks/' Ouis doctior iisdem temporibus aut cujus eloquentia 
 literis instructior cjuam Pisistrati ? Qui primus Homeri libros, 
 confiisos Antea, sic disposuisse dicitur ut nunc habemus. "'* 
 
 It must be allowed however that this expression of Cicero, that 
 Pisistratus "primus Homeri Coiifiisos aniea dispossuisse," will not 
 prove much; for it does not follow because Homer's works were 
 confused or disarranged in the time of tiieir first editor, that they 
 had never been composed in a regular series. They are supposed 
 to have been transmitted through the medium of the rhapsodists, a 
 class of minstrel who flourished from the earliest periods. It was 
 from the songs recited by these men songs which from their merit 
 and interest, were popular among them that Homers works were 
 compiled at Athens, 
 
 Herodotus was of the opposite opinion to Cicero. His words are 
 "As for the gods, whence each of them was descended, or whether 
 they were always in being, or under what shape or form they existed, 
 the Greeks knew nothing till very lately. Hesiod and Homer, 
 were I believe, about 400 years older than myself, and no more 
 and these are the men who mide a t/uoj^ony for the Greeks ; who 
 gave the Gods their app.lLilions, defined their qualities, appointed 
 their honours and described their forms. As for the poets who 
 are said to have lived before these men, I am of opinion they came 
 after them.'" 
 
 But the early existence of Homer's works cannot be doubted;and 
 
 " Cie. de Orat, 1. iil,
 
 Itomer. 31 
 
 why should it be doubted? ''The age in which Homer lived was 
 far more favourable to the perfection of poetry than later times. 
 Then the whole region of imagination lay unexplored, the themes 
 of poetry were unexhausted, and must have appeared utterly ex- 
 haustless. T1h5 period is very finely described in an Essay 
 in the Universal Encyclopsedia which runs thus. " The very rude- 
 ness of the age afforded the best opportunities for poetry. The 
 minds of the men were then alive to tales of superstition. 
 There were no critics to fear or propitiate. Society, if in the 
 inexperience, was also in the bloom and vigour of its youth. 
 Virtues and vices were then gigantic; they had not been 
 rendered puny, or melted down by tiie progress of civilization and 
 art. Desperate revenge, fierce and uncontrollable anger, inex- 
 tinguishable hate on the one hand, and heroic bravery, noble 
 contempt of danger and death, and romantic friendships on the 
 other; were to be seen in their utmost extremes of awful or of 
 placid grandeur. Life was then full of adventure. *The feuds of 
 rival chieftains afforded a perpetual succession of incidents to all, 
 as well as a stimulus to the deepest emotions of their partizans. 
 Friendship was cemented by the participation of hardships and of 
 peril, and proved stronger than fortune; lasting as existence. In 
 the breathing times of concord, a wild and generous hospitality 
 filled up the pause, and was rendered graceful by the aid of song. 
 The poet then found in every region the materials of his art ; pas- 
 sion was energy whether of the niobt tremendous or exalted kind ; 
 tradition filled up the place of history, and gave ample ground for 
 his song, while it left him verge enough for tlie exercise of his 
 invention. The new religion, which was beginning to alTord, even 
 to the common people, a feeling of the grace of form and tiie har- 
 mony of tlic universe, had its altars on every shore; with its solemn 
 rites and mysteries and trivial fond records. .Surely tiiere needed 
 not to render this age poetical, the perfection of scliolastic subtlety, 
 tlie nice control of the [xiiice. or the coninion-i)l,ice comforts and 
 luxuries of modern times, 'i'lie i)oet liad ail 'the world" of genius 
 'before him where to chose.' What education did he need.'
 
 32 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 What formal introduction to the muses ? His infancy might have 
 been delighted with wondrous tales of heroes and demi-gods ; his 
 youth passed by the shores of tlie ocean, amidst the chaste scenery 
 of Greece ; and hi? manhood occupied in wandering from country 
 to country, admiring all that was beautiful, revering all that was 
 grand, and rejoicing in all that was romantic. What had he to do 
 with books, or with worldly knowledge : his school was the 
 universe. The mountains, the streams, and the ocean, were his 
 teachers. The wild traditions of his age afforded him the threads 
 from which he was to weave a glorious composition, whose colours 
 should be ever fresh as nature shall endure. We have no hesitation 
 in believing, that the ploughman of Scotland -he who "walked 
 in glory and in joy, beside his plough upon the mountain side," 
 breathed forth the tenderest notes of poetry without the aid of 
 external culture. We hesitate not to think that a youth of sixteen 
 once fabricated an artful deception with wonderful industry and 
 skill, and poured forth effusions worthy of the best age of English 
 genius. Why then should we think it incredible that Homer 
 should shine as the day-star of Grecian literature, in an age when 
 the common incidents of life abounded with materials of song.'"' 
 
 Vatighan, also, in his Poetical Essay very finely observes, 
 "Let it be granted that of the times and events of which Homer 
 sung, historically we know nothing. They are all gone dead 
 passed away ; their vacant chronicles may be silent as the tombs 
 in which their bones are buried. Yet there remains still tb 
 us in Homer's verse, mateiials, richer perhaps than exist for any 
 period of the ancient world a picture, not of the times of which 
 he sung but of the men among whom he lived. How they acted 
 how they thought, talked and felt ; what they made of this earth 
 and of their place in it ; we have it all delineated in the marvellous 
 verse of a poet who, be he what he may, was in this respect the 
 greatest which the earth has ever seen." 
 
 Homer is the heart of the age ii which he lived. What matter 
 is it what his name was, or where he lived, while we have himself 
 and the originals from which he drew? And perhaps the parts
 
 Homer. 33 
 
 from which we may learn most, are the fragments, here and there, 
 let fall by Homer as it were by accident. Things too familiar to 
 his own hearers to dwell upon; but to us, whose object is to make 
 out just those very things which were familiar, they are of special 
 and singular value. Unlike as his characters are to any men that 
 we have ever seen, we often fall acrosssomelittletrait of humanity 
 which is identical in form as well as spirit, with our own experience. 
 Then for the moment all is changed with us gleams of light 
 flash out, in which the drapery becomes transparent, and we see 
 behind it that entire old world in the warm glow of flesh and 
 blood. There is that in those child's scenes of his, which throw 
 us back into our old familiar childhood. With all these years 
 between us, there is no difference between their children and ours. 
 The little Ulysses climbing on the knees of his father's guest, 
 coaxing for a taste of the red wine, and spilling it as he starts at 
 the unusual taste ; or that other most beautiful picture of him run- 
 ning at the side of Laertes in the garden at Ithaca, the father 
 teaching the boy the names of the fruit-trees, and making presents 
 to him of this tree and that tree for his very own, to^help him to re- 
 member what they were called; the partition wall of three thousand 
 years melts away as we look back at scenes like these. Then, 
 as now, the children loved to sport on the shore and watch the in- 
 rolling waves ; then, as now, the boy architect would pile the 
 moist sand into mimic town or castle, and when the work was 
 finished, sweep it away again in wanton humour with foot and 
 hand ; then, as now, the little tired maiden would cling to her 
 mother's skirt, and trotting painfully along beside her, look up 
 wistfully and plead with moist eyes to be carried in her arms. 
 
 With such evidence of identity among us all, it is worth while in 
 reading it to look closer at the old Greeks, to try and find in 
 Homer something beyond fine poetry, or exciting adventures, or 
 battle scenes, or materials for scholarship ; to look in him for the 
 story of real living men set to pilgrimage in the old way on the 
 same old earth men, such as we are, children of one family 
 with the same work to do, to live the Ijest life they could with
 
 34 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 the same trials, the same passions, the same difficulties; if with 
 weaker means of meeting them. 
 
 The poetry of Homer has handed down to posterity an exact 
 picture of the customs and manners of a very distant age. By its 
 aid we can trace through successive years the variations which 
 gradually take place in warfare and in letters, in habits and in 
 customs ; we can gaze with reverence upon the superstitions which 
 have become extinct, and smile, upon comparing the nascent follies 
 of the age of Demi-gods, with the full-blown follies of the age of 
 men. Just as Homer stands pre-eminent among tlie ancient bards 
 in all else, so he is equally in this. Almost as much as we admire 
 the felicity of his imagination, the grandeur of his s:ory, and the 
 excellency of the moral precepts which are interspersed thiough- 
 out it, so do we value him for the faithful representation which he 
 has given us of the manners of his heroes. 
 
 And, in this, the Odyssey, which describes the travels and suffer- 
 ings of an individual, has of course, more numerous sketches ot 
 private life than the Iliad, and the actors seem as it were to be 
 upon a public stage. We cannot help wondering at the manner in 
 which the poet has interwoven in his most gorgeous descriptions, 
 allusions to the art and commerce of his countrymen. We may 
 observe that the besiegers of Ilium were ignorant of coined money. 
 
 " EuSev ap oivi^ovTO KaoriKOfxowvTes Axatoi 
 AA.A01 /xfv x'^^Kui, oAAoi 5'aidu'yt oiar)j w 
 AWos Se jjivois, aAAoi b'avTOiaiBueaaiv, 
 AWoi 5'av5j aTToBfacri." 
 
 Each in exchange, proportioned treasure gave ; 
 Some brass or iron, some an ox or slave. 
 
 Not a word of the bargain of pound, shillings, and pence. 
 And yet these ancient Greeks obtained that great proficiency in 
 the arts without its use. From Homer's description they had in a 
 great measure our idea of policy, our customs, and superstitions. 
 Although living in so remote a period, they enjoyed many of our 
 luxuries, and although corrupted and debased by the grossest of 
 religious codes, they entertained many of our notions of morality ! 
 The modern lustres of the drawing room sink into insignificance
 
 Homer. 35 
 
 by the side of the candelabras of Alcinous : 
 
 Pefulgent pedestals the walls surround, 
 
 Which boys of gold with flaming torches crown'd ; 
 
 The polished ore, reflecting every ray, 
 
 Blazed on the banquets with a double day. 
 
 Many ladies would be amazed at learning in Homer the numbers 
 
 and duties of the housemaids : 
 
 ' newTTjKoura Se oi Sfiaiai Kara Swixa yvvaiKes k.t.\. 
 
 Full fifty handmaids form the household train ; 
 Some turn the mill, or sift the golden grain ; 
 Some ply the loom ; their busy fingers move 
 Like poplar-trees when Zephyr fans the grove, *" 
 
 The greatest characteristic in the Iliad is the reality and air of 
 truth which it bcais throughout. We seem as though we are lis- 
 tening to a circumstantial tale, so vivid is the poet's pencil^ and so 
 minute the details. Wherever we meet with his heroes we sympa- 
 thize with them as with old friends. The domestic parts of the 
 tale not only relieve the heroic scenes but prepare us to enjoy them. 
 We see the chief buckling on his armour in the morning, snatching 
 a hasty repast, and taking a hurried leave of his comrades ; we 
 follow him with breathless interest through the adventures of the 
 field ; and we feel the deepest tragic interest when he falls in the 
 pride and glory of his manhood. 
 
 The variety and number of characters and incidents introduced 
 in the Iliad is astonishing. Images are poured forth from the mind 
 of the poet as though he were unable to restrain them, and yet 
 they have all the vividness and perfection which might have been 
 expected from the most anxious thought, and laborious finishing. 
 
 The character of the two poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey are 
 widely dilTcrent. In turning from one to the other, wc breathe un- 
 der a fresh atmosphere. Tope says, "The Odyssey is the reverse 
 of tiic Iliad, in moral, subject, manner, and style ; to whicli it has 
 no sort of rel.Uion, but as the story hapi)cns to follov/ in order ot 
 time, ar.d as some of the same persons arc .ictf)rs in it." And 
 Longinus, "'In my juch^nicnt it i)r(H-cc(ls ih.il ;is the Iliad was 
 written while his sj)irit wah in the ,L;rcatest \ igour, the whole struc-
 
 S6 The early Poets of Greece, 
 
 ture of that work is dramatic and full of action ; whereas the 
 greater part of the Odyssey is employed in narration which is the 
 taste of old age : so that in this latter piece we may compare him 
 to the setting sun, which has still the same greatness but not the 
 same ardour or force." 
 
 The poems of Homer formed the basis of Greek literature. Every 
 Greek who had received a moderate education was well acquainted 
 with them, but nobody states anything about their author. The 
 date and place of his birth were matters of dispute. Seven cities 
 claim him ^s their countryman, "Smyrna, Rhodus, Colophon, 
 Salamis, Chios, Argos, Athaense." Most of these have but very 
 slender evidence to support their claim, but the claims of Smyrna 
 and Chios are the most plausible. The best modern writers place his 
 date about 8-jO B.C. Herodotus, the most reliable authority, repre- 
 sents him as 400 years before his time, 846 B.C. as he himself 
 flourished about 444 B.C. An account of his birth and life, which 
 may be considered as the most correct, is given by Herodotus. 
 The substance of it is as follows : 
 
 The name of Homer's mother was Crytheis, who proving unlaw- 
 fully with child, was driven away from Cumas by her uncle, with 
 Ismenias, and found refuge in Smyrna. As she was celebrating a 
 festival near this city, she was delivered of the poet Homer. 
 Crytheis supported herself by her labour, till Phemius, a school- 
 master at Smyrna, fell in love with her, and married her. When 
 he died, Homer succeeded him in his school, and was renowned 
 for his wisdom. Attracted by his fame, Mentes, the commander 
 of a Leucadian ship, visited him and induced him to leave his 
 occupation and travel. In his company he went to Italy and 
 Spain ; but was at length left at Ithaca, in consequence of a de- 
 fluxion in his eyes. While there he was entertained by a man of 
 fortune named Menitor, who told him those circumstances upon 
 which he afterwards framed the Odyssey. Soon after, he became 
 totally blind, and on this misfortune returned to Smyrna, his 
 native place ; but his hopes of support were disappointed by the 
 apathy with which his productions were regarded byhis countrymen.
 
 ttomer. 37 
 
 Although this is the only circumstantial account which has 
 reached us of Homer's adventures and condition, it is little to be 
 relied on. It agrees in two respects with the other accounts con- 
 cerning him that he had been a great traveller, and that he was 
 afflicted with blindness. The particulars of the latter however are 
 mere conjectures. The character of his compositions seem rather 
 to suppose him all eye, than destitute of sight ; and if they 
 were even framed during his blindness, they form a glorious 
 proof of the vivid power of the imagination, more than supplying 
 the want of the bodily organs; and not merely throwing a variety 
 of its own tints over the objects of nature, but pi-esenting them 
 to the mind in a clearer light than could be shed on them by one 
 whose powers of immediate vision were perfcctiy free from blem- 
 ishes. He therefore removed to Cuma; where he received great 
 applause but no reward, the people alleging that they could not 
 think of maintaining all the " O/irj/'oi, blind men," and from this 
 repulse he obtained the name of Homer. Baffled again, he tra- 
 velled to Phoca^a, where Thestorides, a schoolmaster, promised to 
 support him, on condition of being allowed to transcribe his 
 poems ; which being granted, this new friend took them away 
 to Chios, and gained universal applause by producing them. 
 Hearing of this, however, he resolved to lay claim to his own 
 compositions, and, for that purpose set out for Chios, but before 
 he met with Thestorides, he was found by Gl uicus, a shepherd 
 and introduced by him to his master at Balissus, who em- 
 ployed him in the education of his children. As his fame in- 
 creased while he remained in this situation, his piratical foe took 
 flight, and left iiini in possession of the iicld. On this he left his 
 employment and went to Chios, where he acquired considerable 
 wcahh by his poems; married, ruul had two daughters, one of 
 wliom died young, and tlie other was married to the person in 
 whose family he had recently been a teacher. He determined 
 however to proceed to .Athens ; but tiie vessel was del. lined during 
 the winter at Samos, wliere he sung or recited his poems, often 
 followed by a train of children. He attempted in the s])ring to
 
 3$ The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 prosecute his voyage, but was seized with sickness, died, and was 
 buried on the sea-shore. 
 
 The similes of Homer are another proof of the copiousness of 
 his genius. They frequently contain the most beautiful pictures of 
 noble objects. Even when most prolix they show the intensity of 
 his feeling, which would not allow him to touch on anything, inci- 
 dentally, or anything grand or lovely,'_without waiting to revel in its 
 charms. Occasionally too, they relieve the heart by diverting an 
 interest w'hich becomes oppressive, and by pouring delight on the 
 fancy, takes away the sting from a tragical catastrophe; while they 
 render our pity gentler, and our sympathy of a gentler description. 
 We see Sarpedon struck through the thigh, borne off the field, the 
 long spear trailing from the wound, and there is too much haste 
 to draw it out. Hector flies past him and has no time to speak ; 
 all is dust, hurry, and confusion. Even Hector can only pause for 
 a moment; but in three lines, he lays the wounded hero under a 
 tree ; he brings a dear friend to his side, and we refresh ourselves 
 in a beautiful scene when the lance is taken out and Sarpedon 
 faints, and comes slowly back to life with the cool air fanning him 
 Thus Pope has beautifully translated it : 
 
 " He said : both javelins at an instant flew ; 
 
 Both struck, both wounded ; but Sai-pedon's slew : 
 Full in the boasters neck the weapon slood, 
 Transfix'd his throat, and drank the vital blood; 
 The soul disdainful seeks the cares of night, 
 And his seal'd eyes for ever lose the liglit. 
 Yet not in vain, Hepolemus, was thrown 
 Thy angry lance; which piercing to the bone 
 Sarpedon's thigh, had robb'd the chief of breath; 
 But JoTe was present, and forbade Ihe death. 
 Borne from tlie conflict by his Lycian throng. 
 The wounded hei-o drngg'd the lance along. 
 (His friends, each busied in his several part, 
 Tliroiigh haste, or danger, bad not drawn the dai-t.) 
 The Greeks with slain Ilipolemus retir'd ; 
 Whose fall Ulysses view'd. with fury fir'd ; 
 DoubM'nl if Jove's great son he should j^ursue. 
 Or ]iour his vengeance on the Lycian crew. 
 But heaven and fate the first design withstand 
 Jvor this gi'eat death niu?t gi-ace Ulysses' hand. 
 Minerva drives him on the Lycian train, 
 Alastor, Cromius, Halius, strew'd the ])lain,
 
 Homer. 39 
 
 Alexander, Prytanis, Noenion fell: 
 And numbers more his sword had sent to hell, 
 But Hector saw ; and furious at the sight, 
 Eush'd terrible amidst the ranks of fight, 
 With joy Sarpedon view'd the wish'd relief. 
 And faint, lamenting, thus implored the chief: 
 
 Oh suffer not the foe to bear away 
 My helpless corpse, an unassisted prey; 
 If I, unblessed, must see my son no more, 
 My much-loved consort, and my native shore 
 Yet let me die in Ilion'u sacred wall ; 
 Troy, in whose cause I fell, shall mourn my fall 
 
 He said ; nor Hector to the chief replies, 
 But shakes his plume, and fierce to combat flies ; 
 Swift as a whirlwind, drives the scattering foes, 
 And dies the ground with purple as he goes. 
 
 Beneath a beech, Jove's consecrated shade. 
 His mournful friends divine Sarpedon laid : 
 Brave Pelagon, liis fuv'rite chief was nigh. 
 Who wrenched the javelin from his sinewy thigh. 
 The fainting soul stood ready wiiig'd for fliglit. 
 And o'er liis eye-balls swam the shades of night 
 But Boreas rising fresh, with gentle breath, 
 Recall'd his spirit from the gates of death." 
 
 (ILIAD Book V. 1 814.) 
 Again in that fearful death wrestle at the Grecian wall, when 
 gates and battlements are sprinkled over with blood, and neither 
 Greeks nor Trojans can force their way against the other, we have 
 first an image of the fight itself, two men in the field, with measur- 
 ing rods, disputing over a land boundary ; and for the equipoise ot 
 the two armicsjthe softest of all home scenes, a poor working woman 
 weighing out her wool before weaving it, to earn a scanty subsis- 
 tence for herself and children. Pope's translation of this passage 
 may be read amongst the illustrations at the end of the book. The 
 same astonisliing similes are to be found in other places, In the 
 magnificent scene, where Achilles weary with slaughter, pauses on 
 the l^ank of the Scamander, and tlic angry river God, whose cause 
 is checked by the bodies of the slain, swells up to revenge them, 
 the natural and the supernatural are marvellously blended. 
 
 Again in the (.ightecnth Iliad, the poet describes two cities, 
 cmljodying in their coiiilition two ideas Peace and War. In one 
 a happy wedding is g('!:^g forward ; tlic pomp of the hymeneal 
 procession is passing alon;^ the streets ; the air is full of music and
 
 40 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 the women are standing at their doors to gaze. The other is in 
 the terrors of a siege ; the hostile armies glitter under the walls ; 
 the women and children press into the defence and crowd to the 
 battlements. In the first city a quarrel rises, and wrong is made 
 right, not by violence and fresh wrong, but by the majesty of law 
 and order. Under the walls of the other an ambush lies, like a 
 wild beast on the watch for its prey. The unsuspecting herdsmen 
 pass on with their flocks to the waterside,, the spoilers spring from 
 their hiding places and all is strife, and death, and horror, and 
 confusion. 
 
 There is a touchingly beautiful passage in the seventeenth Odyssev, 
 describing the return of Ulysses where his old dog Argus acknow- 
 ledges his master, after an absence of twenty years, and dies with 
 
 joy- 
 
 ' Thus, near tlie gate conferring as they drew, 
 Argus, the clog, his ancient master knew ; 
 He, not unconscious of the voice and tread. 
 Lifts to the sound his ear and rears his head ; 
 Bred by Ulysses, nourish'd at his board. 
 But, ah ! not fated long to please his lord ! 
 To him his swiftness and his strength were vain ; 
 The voice of glory call'd him o'er the main. 
 Till then in every sylvan chase renown'd, 
 With Argus, Argus rung the woods around ; 
 With him the youth pursued the goat or fawn. 
 Or trac'd the mazy leveret o'er the lawn. 
 Now left to man's ingratitude he lay. 
 Unhous'd, neglected in the public way ; 
 And where on heaps the rich manure was spread. 
 Obscene with reptiles, took his sordid bed 
 
 He knew his lord ; he knew, and strove to meet ; 
 In vain he strove, to crawl, and kiss his feet, 
 Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes, 
 Salute his master and confess his joys. 
 Soft pity touch'd the mighty master's soul ; 
 Adown his cheek a tear unbidden stole. 
 Stole unpcrceiv'd ; he turn'd his head and di-y'd 
 The drop humane : then thus impassion'd cry'd 
 
 What noljle beast in this abandon'd state 
 Lies here all helpless at Ulysses' gate ? 
 His bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise : 
 If, as he seem, he was in better days, 
 Some care his age deserves ; or was he priz'd 
 For worthless beauty ? therefore now despis'd ; 
 Such dogs and men there are, mere things of state
 
 Hesiod. 41 
 
 And always cherish'd by their friends the great. 
 
 Not Argus so, (Eumocus thus rejoined,) 
 But serv'd a master of a nobler kind, 
 Who never, never shall behold him more ! 
 Long, long since perish'd on a distant shore ! 
 Oh, had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young, 
 Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong : 
 Him no fell savage on the plain withstood, 
 None scap'd him bosom'd in the gloomy wood ; 
 His eye how piercing, and his scent how true. 
 To wind the vapour in the tainted dew ? 
 Such when Ulysses left his natal coast. 
 Now years unnerve him, and his lord is lost ! 
 The women keep the generous creature bare, 
 A sleek and idle race is all their care : 
 The master gone, the servants what restrains ? 
 Or dwells humanity where riot reigns? 
 Jove fix'd it certain, that whatever day 
 Makes man a slave, takes half his worth away. 
 This said, the honest herdsman strode before ; 
 The musing monarch pauses at the door : 
 The dog, whom Fate had granted to behold 
 His lord, when twenty tedious years had roll'd. 
 Takes a last look, and, having seen him, dies ; 
 So clos'd for ever faithful Argus' eyes ! 
 
 We might quote many more of these poetical masterpieces the 
 description of the chiefs by Helen, the single combat of Paris and 
 Menelaus, and of Ajax and Hector the loves of Paris and Helen 
 the meeting of Glacius and Diomed between the armies, and the 
 renewal of their old friendship the journey of Prian to recover 
 the body of his best beloved son, which is admirably conceived 
 and touchingly described the brilliant description of the death of 
 Hector; the pathetic lamentation of Helen over the body of Hector, 
 in which she declares that while others have reviled her, he had 
 never given her one unkind word or upbraiding and perhaps su- 
 perior to all the rest, the battle in which the immortals join, 
 superior to any battle ever dei)icled in verse, in grandeur, and rich- 
 ness of colouring. 
 
 Hesiod. The next great poet after Homer, whose works have 
 reached us, is Hesiod. Fortunately, Hesiod has given an account 
 of his own life in his Work (ind Days^ and from that we learn that 
 he was born in Ascra, a village in Pcuotia, at the foot of Mount
 
 42 The early Poets of Greece. 
 
 Helicon. From this he derived the name of Ascreeus, by which he 
 
 is often called in the classical writers. He is the representative of 
 
 the Basotian school of poetry, as Homer is of the Ionic, but the 
 
 two, except in respect to the dialect, are entirely different. Homer 
 
 takes for his subjects the restless activity of the heroic age, while 
 
 Hesiod turns his attention to the quiet pursuits of ordinary life, 
 
 rural occupation, and the gods and heroes. The two principal 
 
 works of Hesiod, which have come down to us, are his Works and 
 
 Days^ containing ethical, political, and economical precepts ; and 
 
 a Theogony or a generation of the Gods, giving an account of the 
 
 generation of the world. The great excellence of Hesiod, consists 
 
 in his natural and simple style ; though in his delineations he 
 
 displays a daring and ardent conception, which is not afraid to 
 
 grasp the mightiest things. Take, for instance, the following 
 
 passage, translated by Broome : 
 
 "Then Jove omnipotent display'd the God, 
 And all Olympus tremljied as he trod : 
 He grasps ten thousand thunders in his hand, 
 Bares his red arm, and wields the forky brand ; 
 Then aims the bolts, and bids his lightnings play ; 
 They flash, and rend through heaven their flaming way : 
 Redoubling blow on blow, in wrath he moves ; 
 The sing'd earth groans, and burns with all her groves ; 
 The floods, the billows, boiling hiss with fu'es, 
 And bickering flame, and smouldering smoke aspires : 
 A night of clouds blots out the golden day ; 
 Full in their eyes the v/rithen lightnings play : 
 Ev'n chaos burns : again earth groans, heaven roars, 
 As tumbling downward with its shining towers; 
 Or burst this earth, torn from her central place, 
 With dire disruption from her deepest base: 
 Nor slej^t the wind : the wind new horror forms. 
 Clouds rush on clouds before th' outrageous storms. 
 While, tearing up the sands, in drifts they rise, 
 And half the desert mount th' encumber'd skies : 
 At once the tempest bellows, lightnings fly, 
 The thunders roar, and clouds involve the sky : 
 Stupendous were the deeds of heavenly might; 
 What less, when (jods conflicting cope in fight." 
 
 The 77/r<^i,'-,^;/;Ms also a valuable history of the Pagan mvthology ; 
 
 it is no doubt the most accurate account of the deities of Greece. 
 
 It has been imitated by Milton, in his Ihittle of /he Angels, but
 
 Alcceus. Sappho. Anacreon. 43 
 
 certainly not exceeded. Though Hesiod, however, will be always 
 interesting to lovers of antiquity, as exhibiting an accurate picture 
 of simple manners, and will be admired by the lover of poetry for 
 a few passages of rugged sublimity ; he possesses none of those 
 charms of story or of character, which can render a translation of 
 his works, however extended, popular amongst the unlearned. A 
 further extract from the Theogony will be found among the " Select 
 Translations." 
 
 ALCiEUS. The next poet of whom we have any authentic 
 information, was Alcaeus, the first of the ^olian lyric poets and 
 inventor of the well-known Alcaic metre. Our knowledge of his 
 character is chiefly to be derived from the excellent imitations of 
 his poems bequeathed to us by Horace ; while our estimation of 
 his genius may be gathered from the extant fragments of his poems. 
 Those which have received the highest praise are his warlike odes, 
 in which he endeavoured to raise the spirits ot the nobles, the 
 Alccei minaces Carmines of Horace. Alca?us is said to have paid 
 his addresses to Sappho, another great leaderof the ^Eolian school. 
 
 Sappho. Our knowledge of Sappho is gathered principally 
 from the ancient writers, all of whom agree in expressing the most 
 unbounded admiration for her poetry. She was the second of the 
 two great leaders of the yEolian school. Her lyrics formed nine 
 books, hut of these only fragments have come down to us. The 
 most important is a splendid ode to Aphrodite (Venus), a transla- 
 tion of which will be found at the end of the book. 
 
 Anacreon. The next poet of importance that we know any- 
 thing of is the Greek lyric poet Anacreon. It is generally 
 admitted that he was born at Tecs, an Ionian city, in Asia Minor. 
 Only a few of his poems have conic down to us, in all of which he 
 celebrates tlie praises of love and wine. Many of them are singu- 
 larly beautiful and elegant, and luive obtained great popularity in 
 modern times; perhaps, however, this is indebted to the admirable 
 English translations that have ijccn made, of which Moore's is the 
 most elegant. Several are reserved for c|uotation later on. 
 
 Pindar. Pindar, a famous lyric poet of Thebes, is celebrated
 
 44 Tlie early Poets of Greece. 
 
 chiefly for his Odes, of which there are four books extant. They 
 are entitled the Epinicia triumphal odes and are called respect- 
 ively Olympian, Pythean, Nemean, and Isthmian. His other 
 works, of which there are a few extant, are enmumerated in our 
 "Compendium." Pindar studied music and poetry under Myrtis and 
 Corinna, and is said to have first gained fame by winning a prize 
 over the former poet ; but the beauty of Corinna is said to have 
 proved so attractive to the judges that she gained the prize five 
 times successively.- Pindar, however, speedily became famous, and 
 acted as poet-laureate to the states throughout Greece. 
 
 y'EsCHVLUS. This brings us to yEschylus, one of the most 
 famous tragic Grecian poets. His mind very easily received an 
 impulse from the poetry of Homer, to which he was enthusiastically 
 devoted. He improved the stage, which was then in a very rude 
 state ; he elevated the language of tragedy, and exchanged recitation 
 for dialogue. Force, grandeur, and sublimity are the characteristics 
 of his works, and for energy of style and sentiment, he may vie with 
 the greatest dramatic writers of any age. 
 
 The later Greek poets, whose works are more or less known, 
 but who are too numerous to be detailed at length in this stage of 
 our work, we reserve for mention in the "Compendium." In most 
 cases their works, or some material traces of them have reach us, 
 and in all such cases they will be found carefully cited in Notes 
 systematically arranged for the better accommodation of space. 
 Some will be found among these of whom little or no particulars 
 are given, as no really reliable information is to be gathered of 
 them, while in cases such as those of Agatho, said to be contem- 
 porary with Socrates, Carcinus, to whom a few trifling lines are 
 attributed, Dic;ogcr.es, mentioned by Suidas, Nichocharis (or 
 Michochares) acomic poet said tobe comtemporary with Aristoph- 
 anes, Phormis, Polyides, Zenarchus, Sosistratus, Pauson, &c., 
 beyond this nominal mention, we omit altogether, altiiough many 
 such might be gathered from the writings of Diodorus Siculus, 
 Aristotle, Quintilian, Victorias, and later, Dacier, Bayle, &c.
 
 The early Roman Poets. 45 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE EARLY ROMAN POETS. 
 
 Plautus. Plautus, although not the earliest, was the first Latin 
 comic poet of any importance. The first in point of chronology 
 was Livius Andronicius a writer of several Tragedies a.nd. Comedies, 
 but which were, however, obsolete in Cicero's time. The Plays of 
 Plautus, which are twenty in number, were adaptations from the 
 Greek, and became very popular, and they are even now admired. 
 They were represented with great applause on the Roman stage 
 for about five hundred years. 
 
 Terence. Terence, the next inportant poet, was chiefly cele- 
 brated for his Comedies, which are mostly adaptations of the Greek 
 poet Menander. He is said to have written as many as a hun- 
 dred and eight, though of these only six remain. The style of the 
 latter is very elegant, and the sentiments delicate ; Quintilian 
 pronounced him the most elegant and refined of all the Latin 
 writers. His first piny Andrea got referred to Caecilius, at that 
 time one of the most popular play-writers in Rome. Unknown, 
 and meanly clad, Terence began reading from a low stool his 
 opening scene. A few verses showed the elder poet that no ordin- 
 ary writer stood before him, and the young aspirant, then in his 
 twenty-seventh year, was invited to share the couch and supper 
 of his judge. 'Y\iQ Andrea, which was performed two years later, 
 was successful, and, aided by the accomplishments and good 
 addresses of Terence himself, was the means of introducing him 
 to the elite of Rome. 
 
 Ennius. Ennius is represented as the father of Latin poetry, 
 and is thus characterized by Ovid : 
 
 " Ennius ingenio niaximus. arte nulls." 
 but, except for a few fragments, all his works are lost. He wrote 
 Trai:;edies, Comedies J'~pii;r(i!s and Sd/icrs ; but his most important 
 work was an epic poem in dactylic hexameters, called Ainiates 
 being a history of Rome from tlie earliest times to his own day. 
 We learn that he was patronized by Scipio Africanus and other
 
 46 The early Roman Poets. 
 
 Romans of distinction, and that he maintained himself by teach- 
 ing the youths of the Roman nobles. His style was necessarily 
 rough, from the period in which he lived, but he is warmly com- 
 mended by Quintilian, and Virgil has incorporated many of his 
 lines without change. 
 
 Lucretius. The next Latin poet and philosopher was Lucre- 
 tius. His celebrated poem De Rerum Natiira was written during 
 the intervals of reason, which alleviated an insanity to which he 
 was subject. It is in heroic hexameters, and is divided into six 
 books. It forms the first account of the Epicurean philosophy, and 
 the atheistical doctrine of atoms or materialism, and gives a striking 
 example of the great freedom with which opinions contradictory 
 to the established religion were at that, lime maintained. No 
 writer has more pointedly controverted the popular notions of 
 heathenism. The De Renini Natura has been admitted by all 
 modern critics to be the greatest of didactic poems. Though the 
 language and versification partake of the rudeness of an early 
 period of literature, yet no poet has exhibited in his works greater 
 sublimity, or more elevated sentiment. The most abstruse specu- 
 lations are clearly explained in majestic verse. 
 
 Catullus. The compositions of this poet consist chiefly of 
 Epigrams, which though elegant are tinctured with licentiousness, 
 and disfigured by indelicacies. He satirized Caesar, whose only 
 revenge was to entertain him sumptuously. He was intimate with 
 the great men of his age, and was the first to imitate with success 
 the Greek writers, and introduce their rhythms. 
 
 MARTL\L.--rhis poet was also highly distinguished as an 
 epigrammatist about the same period. He was a native of Spain, 
 though of Roman descent. In his twenty-first year he went to 
 Rome to study the law, but he afterwards appears to have neglected 
 his profession to cultivate his talent for poetry, through which 
 he secured the favour of the Flavian Emperors, Doniitian in par- 
 ticular. His fourteen books o{ Epigrams sparkle witli witticisms, 
 and display great power of imagination but many of them are de- 
 based with coarseness and impurity of thought and expression.
 
 Pollio. Horace. 47 
 
 Contemporary with him, we may mention Valerius Flaccus, author 
 of an unfinished heroic poem in eight books, on the subject of 
 the argonautic expedition. It is highly spoken of by Quintilian. 
 The eighth book was completed by an Italian named Pius. 
 
 Pollio. This Roman poet was also contemporary with Virgil, 
 The fourth and eighth Eclogues oi Virgil are addressed to him. He 
 was a patron of Virgil, Horace, and other great poets, and it is said 
 he was the first person to establish a public library at Rome. Un- 
 fortunately, all his works have perished in the lapse of ages, but 
 there can be no doubt as to the merit of them, as his name has been 
 classed with the greatest poets of his age. His works were Trage- 
 dies, Orations, VLiidi a. History. Virgil and Horace speak in high terms 
 of his Tragedies, though no subsequent writer has mentioned them. 
 
 Horace. This brings us to Horace, the most celebrated of the 
 Roman lyric poets. His poems are distinguished from all other 
 writers of his time for their sweetness of rhythm and elegance of 
 diction. They consist of four books of Odes, one of Epodes, two 
 of Epistlfs,\wo of Satires, a Carvieti Secti/are, ai\d an Ars Poeiica. 
 In his Odes he has successfully imitated Pindar and Anacreon ; 
 his Satires and Epistles full of wit and satirical humour, but 
 with little poetry, and of a simple unadorned style differ little 
 from prose ; and his Art of Poetry displays much taste and judg- 
 ment and neatly expresses, in Latin hexameters, the precepts 
 delivered in the Greek prose of Aristotle. The Epicurian system 
 of philosophy forms the theme of nearly all his poems, but not lux- 
 urious revelry, so much as a homely fare and refined enjoyment. 
 
 A Ijook of verses underncalh the bout;h, 
 A jug of wine, a loaf of l)read aiul thou 
 
 Beside me sint^ing in tlie wilderness 
 Oh, wilderness were Paradise enow ! 
 
 These arc the delights of which Horace loved to sing, and of which 
 nearly all his poems are characteristic no less than for their intrin- 
 sic beauty and gr.ice. He describes the banquet, but he loves the 
 farm ; and while otiiers bcek cosily wines which can transmute 
 "life's leaden metal into gold,'' the cheap vintage of S.>mniuni is 
 for the poet a ''sovereign alchemist." Wealth, anxiously sought,
 
 48 The early Roman Poets. 
 
 and avariciously kept or profligately squandered, he dispised ; he 
 saw that contentment was the secret of happiness and peace. We 
 may select the ode To Dellius as a happy illustration of the original 
 and of our modern version ; the lines will be familar to many. 
 
 " Let not the frowns of fate 
 
 Disquiet thee, my friend, 
 Nor when she smiles on thee, do thou, elate 
 
 With vaunting thoughts, ascend 
 Beyond the limits of becoming mirth, 
 For, Dellius, thou must die, become a clod of earth ! 
 
 Whether thy days go down 
 
 In gloom, and dull regrets. 
 Or, shunning life's vain struggle for renown. 
 
 Its fevers and its frets, 
 Stretched on the grass, with old Falernian wine, 
 Thou giv'st the thoughtless hours a rapture all divine. 
 
 Where the tall spreading pine 
 
 And white-leaved poplar grow. 
 And mingling their broad boughs in leafy twine, 
 
 A grateful sh?Klow throw, 
 Where down its broken bed the wimpling stream. 
 Writhes on its envious way with many a quiveiing gleam. 
 
 There wine, there perfumes bring, 
 
 Bring garlands of the rose, 
 Fair and too short-lived daughter of the spring, 
 
 While youth's bright current flows 
 Within thy veins, ere yet hath come the hour 
 When the dread sisters three shall clutch thee in their power. 
 
 Thy woods, thy treasured pride. 
 
 Thy mansion's pleasant seat. 
 Thy lawns, washed by the Tiber's yellow tide, 
 
 Each favourite retreat. 
 Thou must leave all all, and thine hen- shall run 
 In riot through the wealth thy years of toil have won. 
 
 It seeJ<s not whether thou 
 
 Be opulent, and trace 
 Thy birth from Kings, or bear upon thy brow 
 
 Stamp of a beggar's race ; 
 In rags or splendour, death at thee alike, 
 That no compassion hath for aught of earth, will strike. 
 
 One road, and to one bourne 
 
 We all are goaded. Late 
 Or soon will issue from the urn 
 
 Of unrelenting Fate; 
 The lot that in yon bark exiles us all 
 To undiscovered shores, from which is no recall."
 
 Horace. 49 
 
 His study was of the world, and the wisdom of common life, and 
 to this he brought a quickness of observation which has made his 
 works the delight of practical men. His odes are models of that 
 kind of composition, though they want the higher inspiration of 
 lyric verse. 
 
 In skilful felicity of language, of translucent expression, and 
 agreeable images, they are unsurpassed. His epistles and satires, 
 abound in acute observations of life and manners, and in easy and 
 vivacious illustrations. The former are the most perfect of his 
 poetry, while the latter are unrivalled for keenness of observation 
 and ease of expression. There is none of the fierce vehemence of 
 invective, which is characteristic of the later satirists. It is the 
 folly rather than the wickedness of vice, which he touches with such 
 playful skill. His preceptive piece, the "Epistle to the Pisos" or 
 "Art of Poetry'' though desultory and immelhodical, displays much 
 good sense and taste. It has been agreed that it was not intended 
 for a complete thcoiy of the poetic art, but has been conjectured 
 that it was intendcdto dissuade one of the younger Pisos from devo- 
 ting himself to poetry for which he had little genius; or at least to 
 suggest the difficulties of attaining to perfection. Crusius says, 
 "Horace is peculiarly the poet for apt and elegant quotations; even 
 the variety of his humour and unfixcdncss of his philosophy tend 
 to increase his attraction in this respect, by allowing him to occa- 
 sionally moralise in the lofty manner of the Stoics ; and at other 
 times to indulge in the lighter strain of the Epicurean school, to 
 which his genius and practice were probably more naturally con- 
 formable.'" * 
 
 In sentiment and thought, there is nothing more extraordinary 
 or excellent than in his contemporaries ; but his language is inim- 
 itable, and I doubt whether (lie most learned critic of the Augustan 
 age, allowing him the best taste as well as judgment, could have 
 mended a single expression in any of the Odes, or even have chang- 
 ed one word for a better. This is what Petronius calls the 
 ciniosa fiUcitas of Horace, which two words are as happily joined 
 together as simplex iii!iii(/'Jii.^~, and these four words are perhaps 
 
 C'ru^ivis' Lives of Kom. Poets.
 
 50 The early Roviati Poets. 
 
 sufficent to characterize the poet, and express the beauty of his 
 style in his own manner. It is almost impossible to read the first 
 stanza in the Carmen Seculare without falling into a fit of devotion. 
 Likewise those beautiful odes Donee grains eravi &c., and Queni 
 tu, Melpomene Sec, of which Scaliger once said he would rather 
 be the author than the King of Arrai^on. 
 
 It is impossible in translations to see the great beauty of the 
 Odes of Horace. They are beautiful beyond description. Even 
 where he has imitated Pindar in the beginning of that Ode, 
 
 Qiiem viriim aiit Heron, &^c. 
 he has evidently excelled him; but they never were, nor never can 
 be translated so as to display the beauties of the original, which 
 wholly consist in the language and expression. Still, Cowper's 
 and other translations may be read with pleasure by those who 
 are unacquainted with the Latin language. For example, 
 
 Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow, 
 The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow, 
 
 The streams, coiigeal'd, forget to flow, 
 Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile 
 
 Of fuel on the hearth; 
 
 Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile 
 
 With seasonable mirth. 
 
 This be our part, let Heaven dispose the rest 
 If Jove connnand, the winds shall sleep, 
 That now wage war upon the foamy deep, 
 And gentle gales spring from the balmy west. 
 E'en let us shift to-morrow as wo may, 
 When to-morrow's pass'd away. 
 We at least shall have to say, 
 We have lived another day, 
 Your auburn loclvS will soon be silver'd o'er. 
 Old age is at our heels, and vouth returns no more. 
 
 Book 1. Ode IX. 
 
 And is this all! Can Reason do no more 
 
 Than bid me shun the deep, and dread (lie shore! 
 
 Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea, 
 
 The Christian has an art unknown to thee: 
 
 He holds no parley with unmanly fears; 
 
 Where Duty bids lie confidently steers. 
 
 Faces a thousand dangers at her call, 
 
 And, trusting in his God, surmounts tliem all. 
 
 Book 2. Ode \\\.
 
 Porpertius. 51 
 
 Boy, I hate their empty shows, 
 
 Persian garlands I detest, 
 Bridge not me the late-blown rose, 
 
 Lingering after all the rest, 
 Plainer myrtle pleases me, 
 
 Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine; 
 Myrtle more becoming thee, 
 
 Waiting with thy master's wine. 
 
 Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies. 
 Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting; 
 Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee, 
 
 Where latest roses linger. 
 Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) 
 Plain Myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
 Thee occupied to serve me, or mo drinking 
 
 Beneath my vine's cool shelter. 
 
 Book 1. Ode XXXVII I. 
 
 Horace must have been a pleasant and facetious companion, if 
 we judge by the jollity of some of his odes, and by the love which 
 Augustus and Maecenas had conceived for him. Among other 
 short stories he has left us two which are not more diverting than 
 they are instructive, the Ibatn forte via sacfa, and the account of 
 PJiilippiis and the Crier.* 
 
 The Epistle to Augustus commences with great art and elegance 
 
 of expression. The pul)lic character which he has drawn of that 
 
 prince in four or five short sentences, a modern dedicator would 
 
 easily spin out in forty or fifty pages ; while the praisesgiven to the 
 
 Emperor at the end of this epistle arc equally as elegant and 
 
 refined. 
 
 Cum tot siistincns, ct tanta urgoiia sohts. 
 J\es Italas />c. to t uteris, inoribus onirs, 
 Legitnis cDuitdcs : in publica conmiotla pecccm, 
 Si longo scrmone morcr tua tempor.i C.llSAR. 
 
 pROrERTlus. rroperlius is tlic next Roman poet after Tibullus, 
 of whom wc hear anything. He was very intimate with Tibullus 
 and a iih Ovid, witii whom he was contemporary. He began to 
 wiile poetry .it a \ery early age, and the merit of liis protluctions 
 atlractixl the atcnlion, and obtained the patronage of Abicccn.is and 
 dallus. He is one of the j)rincipal of tiic clogiac j)octs. Tinnigli 
 inferior to Tibullus in tenderness, anil to Ovid in variety, hih works 
 exhibit more learning. He certainly ga\e the tirst specimen of 
 
 F.pist. 7. \\ I
 
 52 The early Roman Poets. 
 
 the poetical epistle, which Ovid is said to have afterwards claimed 
 as his own invention. 
 
 Ovid. This renowned Roman poet was born in the year B.C. 43. 
 He was destined for the law, but his love for poetry led him to desert 
 that profession. After living for many years at Rome and enjoying 
 the favour of Augustus, he was suddenly banished by the Emperor 
 to Tomi a town on the Euxine, near the mouth of the Danube. The 
 general conjecture of his banishment was his licentious poem on 
 the Art of Love {Ars Aviatorid) which had been published nearly 
 ten years previously, but the true cause of his exile is unknown. 
 It is supposed by some that he had been guilty of an intrigue with 
 the younger Julia, the grand-daughter of the Emperor Augustus, 
 who was banished in the same year with Ovid. The poet seems 
 in the following lines to plainly intimate that it was owing to some- 
 thing which he had inadvertently seen, and not to any crime ; 
 
 ' ' Ctir aliqiiid vidi ? Cur noxia biniina feci i 
 Cur hnprudcnti cogiiita cidpa viihi I 
 Juscius Actaon vidit sine Teste Dianam ; 
 Pnrda fiiit cavibus non utiinis ille su2s 
 Scilicet in siiperis eiiam fortuna luenda est . 
 Kec leniain Iceso miinine casus liabet?' 
 
 Ovid draws an affecting picture of the miseries to which he was 
 exposed in his place of exile. He sought some relief in the exer- 
 cise of his poetical talents, and wrote many of his poems during 
 his exile. 
 
 In the earlier period of his life, Ovid was one in a circle of the 
 best and most learned poets of the Augustan age. He is loved and 
 admired for the elegance of his wit, and the sweetness of his man- 
 ners. Even his imperfections are pleasing, and we can excuse all 
 his faults on account of his many excellencies, particularly in his 
 descriptions, which ha\ e never been equalled. As much as I 
 reverence Virgil, and admire Horace, as Roman poets; so I love 
 Ovid. The Georgics of A'irgil is j)crh;ip3 the most finished poem 
 of all that are now extant in any language ; but neither of these 
 great poets knew how to move the passions like Ovid. Take for 
 example, his Mctamorplioses, pa.riicularly the history of CVy.r and
 
 Ovid. 53 
 
 Halcyotie, which I can scarcely read without weeping. The Medea 
 of Ovid is a great loss, and I persuade myself that if this work 
 which all the ancients have so highly commended was now extant 
 it would bear the palm from all our modern tragedies. No judi- 
 cious critic hath ever yet denied that Ovid has more wit than any 
 poet of the Augustan age. The fault generally imputed to him is, 
 that his fancy is too luxuriant. This he would probably have cor- 
 rected if he had had the liberty of reviewing his Metamorphoses. 
 
 " Emeiulaturus, si licuisset, erat." 
 The Metamorphoses consists of such legends or fables as involved 
 a transformation, from the Creation to the time of Julius Cscsar, 
 the last being that Emperor's change into a star. 
 
 The Fasti, which is a sort of poetical calendar, is undoubtedly 
 one of the most important works which have come down to us. 
 It contains in the comparatively short space of some five thousand 
 verses, a summary of the religion, the history, and civil institutions 
 of Rome, from its foundation to the death of Augustus. It is no 
 doubt incomplete, for Ovid says in his Trisiia that he threw on 
 the fire when going into exile, his Metamorphoses and otJier 
 writings, ('sicut bene multa meorum 'j ; that as they still exist, 
 he supposes several copies of them must have been taken; but that 
 they are confusedly imperfect: 
 
 "Nee laineii ilia legi poteruiit paticntcr ab uUo, 
 Nesciet his suiiuuam si quis abesse niaiumi, 
 Ablatiiiii nipcliis 0]iu8 est inciidibus ii^tiid, 
 JJefuit et scriplus ultiiiiii lima incis." 
 
 The Fasti may be regarded as a repertory of the Italian tradi- 
 tions, many of which modern philology has enabled us to distinguish 
 from or compare with the Greek in a more perfect manner, and 
 with greater certainty than cither the author himself or the con- 
 temporary Romans could do. In spite of the hackneyed assertion 
 tliat Roman literature is nothiiiL; but a bad copy of the Greek, it 
 may safely be inaint:.inecl that tiierc is a \cry large admixture of 
 genuine Italian sentiments, and yet more of genuine Italian 
 mythology in tlic Kuia.ui poets, which is often indeed disguised, 
 but seldom wholly obscured by Greek imagery. This is especially
 
 54 The early Roman Poets 
 
 true of Ovid and Virgil. In tlie literature of every nation there 
 must of necessity be much which is strictly original; for every 
 nation has a history and heroes of its own, even when neither its 
 laws nor its religious observances are peculiar to it. The Romans 
 borrowed or rather adapted from the Greeks because it was the 
 fashion of the age. They were not so much dependent on them for 
 intellectual resources, as willing to accept an excellence they could 
 not hope to surpass. It would be as unfair to argue that nothing truly 
 Italian remained to the Romans, as it would be to infer from cer- 
 tain French manners and habits imported from Normandy, that 
 the old Celtic and Anglo-Saxon traditions had perished from 
 England. And it is to these national customs and traditions that 
 Ovid carries us back to the primitive pastoral worship, and the 
 simple life of the wild mountaineers of Italy. It wall of course be 
 urged that thelegends recorded by Ovid are either pure inventions, 
 or totally devoid of authority as traditions. But it is very easy to 
 carry our distrust of traditions too far. Tradition does not always 
 lie, even in very minute matters. A thoughtful person will have 
 little difficulty in making out some plausible truth, even from the 
 wildest and most ancient legends. For instance ; who would doubt 
 that the fall of a meteoric stone is the origin of the strange story 
 o{ the A7ia7e ///. 373? Or that Z't'/ijj- 'the appearing island,' fa- 
 bled to have once floated, and to have been tixed by Apollo, rose 
 from the bed of the ocean ? Yet the immense antiquity of the 
 event is unquestionable. The island existed in Homer's time. 
 These, however, are matters of little importance; not so the early 
 history of Rome. And for this we owe much to the Fasfi of Ovid. 
 There is reason to believe that he took much pains with it as a 
 national work. He calls himself '"Latinorum dicrum vates 
 operosus'"* and in the Trisiia he appears to allude to the Fasti in 
 these lines : 
 
 "Quod supeiTSt, animos ad publica enrniina flcxi 
 Et mcmorcs ju>si notiiinis esse sui." 
 
 We may learn much from this work of Ovid. Few can form any 
 idea what a large proportion of all that we dail}- see and use is 
 
 la^ti Lil). III. 177.
 
 Ovid. 55 
 
 simply Roman; not only in its origin/but almost in its present form. 
 Our \\Vi?i.gt fairs ^nA feasts (feriae Vindfesta) are Roman both in 
 origin and name, as well as the custom of keeping them in booths 
 and tents (See Fasti III. 527). We wear mourning, we sprinkle 
 dust on the coffins of our friends; our poets talk of their 'ashes' and 
 out sculptors commemorate them by cinerary urns. Our funeral 
 service seems to have been the *ter injectus pulvis' of the ancients. 
 The custom of tolling bells, which was intended to keep off evil 
 spirits, and of burying towards the east we find mentioned in the 
 Fasti {Lib. V. 441. IV. 777.) We use bride cake at weddings; we give 
 gifts and add good wishes on New-years day (Fasti I. 17o) ; we 
 celebrate birth-days ; we use the names of the months from 
 January to December imchanged ; we dress our statues in Roman 
 attire ; we impress the Palatine bay and oak on our coins, (Lib 
 /f. n43j;wc place afiflicted persons in abodes named after the 
 'Asylum' of Romulus ; and we call our money after the temple of 
 Juno Moneta, W'e still keep the ancient feast of the F/ara/ia m 
 our May-day reveh-ies ; the A //ibar7ut/ia in 'beating the Parish 
 bounds;' and we still retain orders of knight-hood, borrowed from 
 the Equitcs of the old Republic. 
 
 Here then without doubt lies the immense importance of the 
 Latin language and Roman literature, and of such works as the Fasti. 
 
 1 have prefixed to tliischaptcrafcw of llic choicest trnnslationsfrom 
 Dryden and Cowper, for the interest of tliose who arc unacquainted 
 with the Latin tongue, which maybe read with interest: 
 
 I'VTHAGORKAN PHH.OSOril V. 
 
 For I will sing of niit^hty mysteries, 
 or truths coiiccalM before frmn hunirin eyes ; 
 Dark oraeles iinwil, aivl n]yn all the skies. 
 PlcasM as I am to walk- aloiit; the s[iliere, 
 Of sliininir stais, anil travel willi the }-ear ; 
 To leave tlie lieaxy eai'h, ami seale the heij^ht 
 Of Atlas, who support-, the heav'niy \\eii;ht ; 
 'i'o look from u]iper liLjht, ami thenee s',',r\ey 
 Mistaken niortals waiKTrintj from tlie way, 
 And wantiiiL; wi.iilom, feaiiul for tlie --late 
 Of future iliinL;-, and treniMiiii:; at theii- fate. 
 
 Duviu" N.
 
 56 The early Roman Poets. 
 
 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 
 
 But ah ! be warn'd to slum tlie wat'ry way, 
 The face is frightful of the stormy sea, 
 Too late I saw adrift disjointed planks, 
 And empty tombs erected on the banks. 
 Nor let false hojies to trust betray thy mind, 
 Because my sire in caves constrains the wind, 
 Can with a breath a clam 'rous rage appease. 
 They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas ; 
 Not so, for once indulg'd, they sweep tlie main : 
 Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain ; 
 But bent on mischief Ijear the waves before, 
 And not content with seas, insult the shore ; 
 When ocean, air, and earth, at once engage, 
 And rooted forests fly before tlieir rage ; 
 At once the clashing clouds to battle move, 
 And lightnings run across the fields above : 
 I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport, 
 While yet a child, within mj' fathei-'s court 
 In times of tempest they command alone, 
 And he but sits precarious on the tlirone. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 METAMORPHOSES. 
 
 In this confusion v/hile their work they ply. 
 The winds augment the winter of the sky. 
 And wage intestine wars, the suff'ring seas 
 Are toss d, and mingled as their tyrants please. 
 The master would command, but, in desjniir 
 Of safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care, 
 Nor what to bid, or what forbid, he knows, 
 Th' ungovern 'd tempest to such fuiy grows ; 
 Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill ; 
 With such a concourse comes the ilood of ill ; 
 The cries of men are mix'd \\'ith rattling shrouds. 
 Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds ; 
 At once from east to west, from ])ole to pole. 
 The furl^y lighteniiigs Hash, the i-oaring tliuiidors roll 
 
 Drvde.v. 
 
 OVID, TRIS'l'. HOOK V. EI, EG. XII. 
 
 Could I forget my eouiiti-y, thee and all. 
 And e'en llie ollVnci^ to which 1 owe my fall 
 Yet fVar al"ni> wfiuld ['vt'f-zo the poet's vein. 
 Willie hostile ti-oops swarm o'er tlie di-eary plain 
 Add tliat tlic fatal rust df long disuse 
 Unfits mo for the service of the muse.
 
 Lucan^ 57 
 
 Thistles and weeds are all we can expect 
 From the best soil impoverish'd by neglect ; 
 Unexercised, and to his stall confined, 
 The fleetest racer would be lett behind ; 
 The best built bark that cleaves tiie watery way, 
 Laid useless by, would moulder and decay 
 No hope remains that time shall me restore, 
 Mean as I was, to what I was before. 
 Think how a series of desponding cares 
 Benumbs the genius and its force impairs. 
 How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet, 
 My verse, constraiu'd to move with measured feet 
 Reluctant and laborious limps along, 
 And proves itself a wretched exile's song. 
 What is it tunes the most melodious lays? 
 'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise, 
 A noble thirst and not unknown to me, 
 While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea. 
 But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame? 
 No, rather let the world forget my name." 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON, 
 
 The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on, 
 (Like burnish'd gold the seether shone,) 
 Next took the coleworts which her husband got 
 From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot,) 
 She 8tri|ip'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best 
 She cull'd, and then with handy care she dress'd. 
 High o'er tlie hearth a chine of^ bacon hung ; 
 Good old Philf nion seiz'd it with a prong, 
 And from the sooty rafter drew it down, 
 Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one : 
 Yet a large portion of a little store, 
 Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more. 
 This in the j)Ot he plung'd without delay. 
 To tame th(> flesh, ami drain the salt away. 
 The time bolwcon, before the tire they sat. 
 And siiorten'd the delay by pleasing chat. 
 
 LuCAN.- The poet Lucan was born at Corduba in Spain, in the, 
 year B.C .,''.7. His father was a brother of Seneca the philosopher 
 The Pliayasalia, (an unfinished poem in ten books) has occa- 
 sional faults of harshness, and extraordinary description, yet it w ill 
 ever rank amoiiLj the leadini; [)r<xluctions of the Latin muse. Ijy its 
 moral sul)limit\-, and noble spirit of freedom. TJ-.c ix,uiMti\'e ol' t!ic 
 tenth book, which is imperfect, breaks otT al)r!.iplly in the middle of 
 the Alexandrian war. The Pluva.salia relates the stru"''lc in the 
 
 II
 
 58 The early Uoman Poets. 
 
 civil war between Ceesar and Pompey. Lucan gave proof of his poet- 
 ical talents at a very early age, and thereby excited the jealousy 
 of Nero, whose passion it was, to be regarded as the first poet of 
 the age. He was afterwards treated by the angry emperor with so 
 much indignity, that he took part in the conspiracy of Piso against 
 that execrable tyrant. On the discovery of the plot he was arrest- 
 ed with the other conspirators, and condemned to die. Being 
 allowed to make choice as to the manner of his death, he choose 
 that which terminated the life of his uncle Seneca. His veins 
 were accordingly opened in a hot bath, and when he found himself 
 growing faint and cold with the loss of blood, he repeated some of 
 his own verses, describing a wounded soldier sinking in a similar 
 manner. 
 
 Virgil We now turn with pleasure from these more obscure 
 poets to Virgil, the greatest of the Roman poets. This poet's writ- 
 ings prove that he received a learned education; and traces of 
 Epicurean opinions ;ire apparent in them. After completing his 
 education, Virgil appears to have retired to his father's farm at 
 Andes, and here he may have written some of the small pieces 
 which are attributed to him. In the division of land among the 
 soldiers after the battle of Philippi (42) Virgil was deprived of 
 his property ; but it was afterwards restored at the command of 
 Octavian. It is supposed that \"irgil wrote the Eclogue which stands 
 first in our editions to commemorate his gratitude to Octavian. 
 Soon after this, Virgil probably became acquainted with Maecenas 
 as he is not mentioned in the ICclogues. The Geurgica, his most 
 finished work, was undertaken at the suggestion of .Maecenas 
 {Cco7-g : III. W.) The J'Jic/d was probably long contemplated 
 by the poet. While Augustus was in Spain {'27), he wrote to \'irgil 
 expressing a wish to have some monument of liis poetical talent, 
 and this appears to have been tlie time \\lKn he commenced the 
 /Eneid. \'irgil had llie fricuclbhip of all tlic most accomplished 
 men of the d.iy, anunig wb.om Horace entertained a strong affection 
 for him. As an epic poet, Virg;[ ccriainly r<inks first, but of all his 
 works the GcorgiL\i are the most finished and most original, al-
 
 Virgil. 59 
 
 though the itneid is full of exquisite beauty and good taste. We 
 are told that Tucca and Varius cut off from the /tneid as much as 
 they left, before it was offered to the public. What would I not 
 give for the chippings .'' 
 
 Although Virgil was a court poet and a favourite of Augustus, 
 and not only rewarded but enriched by that Emperor's bounty, 
 his opinions seem to have been republican. He seems to have 
 retained a secret veneration for the patriot senators, and abhorred 
 that venality and corruption by which the first Cfesar overturned 
 the liberties of his country, and fixed his usurpation. There are 
 two passages, one in the sixth and the other in the eighth book of 
 the ^neid, which sufficiently show this : 
 
 " Venditi hie auto fatnai/t, dominiunque potcntcm 
 Impos2iitr 
 
 Virgil probably in this passage alludes to Curio, who sold Rome 
 to Julius Cicsar, and was the principal cause of the ruin of the com- 
 monwealth. But whether he alludes to Curio or not, he certainly 
 avows his own principles by placing in the most honible regions 
 of his poetical hell, the man who sells his country and erects it into 
 a tyranny. The other passage is in the eighth book : 
 
 "^ccrctosqitc pios : his danltin jura Cato)iciiu' 
 It is a noble encomium on Cato, for the poet does not only assign to 
 Cato the first seat in the happy abodus, but he places him at the 
 head of all the other blessed spirits as their guide and director. 
 He certainly designed this for a republican and patriotic spirit, 
 for one who had been a constant and steady friend to virtue and 
 his country. 
 
 If not possessed of the mighty inventive genius of Homer or 
 yEschylus, Virgil was beyond all others in tlie true perception of ele- 
 gance, in the unaffected love of his suljject, and in the exquisite 
 finish and sublimity of iiis episodes. In the delineation of character, 
 Virgil certainly does not anywlicrc ai^proach Homer. AH Homer's 
 characters are human, and therefore interest by their successes 
 and misfortunes. And in this \'irgil fails. With the exception of 
 IJido and perhaps of Turnus in his lateat hour, he has scarcely
 
 60 Tlie early Roman Poets. 
 
 introduced into the ^neid a person who either imposes by the 
 grand, or interests by the amiable features of his character, 
 ^neas is worse than insipid he disgusts by his fears, his shiver- 
 ings, and his human sacrifices; and in his interview with Helen 
 while Troy was on fire, he is below contempt. Amata, however, 
 is Virgil's crime ; he had invested Dido with grandeur, he might 
 have made her lovely; and as he had excited our admiration for 
 the Tyrian queen, he might have drawn our tears for the daughter 
 of Latinus. Certainly Homer's women are preferable to Virgil's. 
 
 The magic of exquisite pcietry is perhaps nowhere more conspic- 
 uous than in the description of Dido's silent and indignant 
 scorn of ^neas in the Stygian regions, and her return to Sicha^us. 
 Stripped of the charm, with which it is invested by the poet, the 
 scene is ludicrous, but as Virgil relates it, it rises to sublimity. If 
 the whole adventure on the Tyrian shore had been told by an 
 ordinary poet,^the widower and the widow would always have been 
 in view and been comic. Yet there is no part of Homer, which we 
 read with more pleasure than we read the second, fourth, and fifth 
 books of Virgil. The story of Nisus and Euryalus is exquisite, 
 nor Is it exceeded by the night adventure of Ulysses and Diome- 
 des in which we hear every step and feel every breath. 
 
 Homer's language is uniformly idiomatic; Virgil's occasionally 
 too highly polished. The poem of Z^/cv'^/zV/j-, and the hexameter 
 of Catullus, and the epistles oi Horace have more of the true raciness 
 of the Latin soil than \'irgil. But Virgil is the true example of 
 epic poetry. The love, despair, and death of Dido, and the parting 
 scene between old Evander and his son, which are sublime in their 
 descriptions, may be found amongst the illustrations at the end of 
 the book. 
 
 The similes of Virgil are mostly obvious, such as would have 
 occurred to the reader without the poet's aid. The murmuring 
 crowd, like the murmuring gusts ; the struggling armies, like the 
 struggling winds ; warriors like wild animals or monsters; one man 
 against a host, like a rock against waves ; and so forth. In all 
 these cases it is not the selection of the simile that can be admired
 
 Virgil. 61 
 
 in Virgil, as in the expression and workmanship, and the beauty 
 of the language. In Virgil the details are worked out independently, 
 to relieve the epic narrative, and form a picture by itself ; but the 
 comparison is usually limited to a single point, and that common- 
 place. 
 
 The modern use of the simile is quite different. There are indeed 
 many passages in the modern poets where the simile is worked out 
 after the Virgilian method, but then these are cases of imitation. 
 If however we open Shelley, we read, 
 
 "The golden gates of sleep unbar 
 
 When strength and beauty, met together, 
 Kindle their image like a star 
 In a sea of glassy weaiher." 
 
 Here there is nothing obvious in the comparison : we should 
 
 never have thought, without the aid of the poet's superb imagination 
 
 of comparing the union of love, to a star mirrored in the smooth 
 
 sea : Or again, 
 
 "Life, like a dome of many coloured glass 
 Stains the 'white radiance of Eternity.^ 
 Until Death tramples it to IVagments." 
 
 Here again the comparison is not at all obvious ; it is fetched 
 from far by the poet's deeper insight and quicker sensibility : and 
 it is splendidly illustrative all through : the bright colours compar- 
 ed with the pure white light, resemble the chequered shifting, 
 imperfect beauties of life; compared with the changeless pi;rfection 
 of eternity : the narrow limited dome, and the endless vault of 
 heaven giving another equally deep contrast : and lastly, the per- 
 ishable glass contrasted with the eternal spaces of the universe. 
 
 Virgil aims at something widely different in his similes to this : 
 for in order to appreciate his true p Kiiy, it is necessary to under- 
 stand his object and so avoid the mistake of judging him by an 
 erroneous standard. \'irgil is a jxict of the artificial kind. 
 His aim was not to express his thoughts in tiie simplest and 
 most direct way on the contr.iry. Ilo employs "an elaboration 
 of language which ilir,i!ain^, or is unable to say, a plain thing in 
 a i)lain way," but his works are full of melody, dignity, imagin-
 
 62 The early Romam Poets. 
 
 ation, and skill. Prefixed to this chapter as illustrations, are a ievf 
 of the choicest passages form Dryden's translations of this Poet. 
 
 VIRGIL EIGHTH PASTORAL. 
 
 "I know thee, Love; in deserts thou wert bred, 
 And at the dugs of savage tigers fed : 
 Alien of birth, usurper of the plains ; 
 Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Msenalian strains. 
 
 Relentless love the cruel mother led 
 The blood of her unhappy babes to shed ; 
 Love lent the sword ; the mother struck the blow ; 
 Inhuman she ; but more inhuman thou," 
 
 GEORGICS. 
 
 "Ye swains, invoke the pow'rs who rule the sky. 
 For a moist summer, and a winter dry : 
 For winter drouglit rewards the peasant's pain, 
 And broods indulgent on the buried grain. 
 
 When first the soil receives the fruitful seed. 
 Make no delay, but cover it with speed : 
 So fenc'd from cold,, the pliant furrows break, 
 Before the surly clod resists the rake : 
 And call the floods from high, to rush amain 
 With pregnant streams, to swell the teeming grain. 
 Then when the liery suns too fiercely play, 
 And shrivell'd herbs on with 'ring stems decay. 
 The wary jfloughman, on the mountain's brow, 
 Undams liis wat'ry stores, huge torrents flow, 
 And, rattling down the rocks, large moisture yield. 
 Temp 'ring the thirsty fever of the field.'' 
 
 "Ev'n when the firmer, now secure of fear, 
 
 Sends in tlie swains to sijoil the finisli'd year ; 
 
 Ev'n while the reaper fills his greedy hands, 
 
 And binds the golden sheaves in brittle bands : 
 
 Oi't hav9 I .seen a sudden storm arise, 
 
 From all the warring winds that sweep tho skies ; 
 
 Tho heavy Jiarvcst from tlie root is torn. 
 
 And whiri'd aloft the lighter stuhblc borne; 
 
 With sucli a force llie flying roek is driv'n 
 
 And ,^ueh a winter wears the face of heav'n. 
 
 And oft old sheets descend of sluicy rain, 
 
 Suek'd Ijy tho sjjongy clouds IVom off tho main ; 
 
 'J'lie lofty skies at once conn^ pouring clown, 
 
 Tho promis'd crop and golden labours drown, 
 
 Tiie dykes are iiU'd and with a roaring sound 
 
 The rising rivers float liio netlier ground; 
 
 And rocks the bellowing voice of rising seas abound.
 
 Virgil. 
 
 FROM THE ILIAD. 
 
 Thus, from the dark recess, the sibyly spoke 
 
 And the resisting air the thunder broke ; 
 
 The cave rebellow 'd, and the temple shook. 
 
 Th' ambiguous god, who rul'd her lab 'ring breast, 
 
 In these mysterious words bis mind express 'd ; 
 
 Some truths reveal 'd, in terms involv'd the rest. 
 
 At length her fury fell, her foaming ceas'd, 
 
 And, ebbing in lier soul, the god decreas'd. 
 
 Then thus the chief: No terror to my view. 
 
 No frightful face of danger can be new ; 
 
 Inur 'd to suffer, and resolv 'd to dare. 
 
 The fates, without my pow 'r, shall be without my care, 
 
 '63 
 
 Thus having said, she sinks beneath the ground 
 
 With furious haste, and shoots the Stygian sound, 
 
 To rouse Aiecto from th' infernal seat 
 
 Of her dire sisters, and their dark retreat. 
 
 Tiiis fury, fit for her intent, slie clioose; 
 
 One who delights in wars and human woes. 
 
 Ev'ti Plato hntes his own nnsshapcn race: 
 
 lier sister furies fly her hideous face: 
 
 So frightful are the forms the monster takes, 
 
 So Qerce the hissings of her speckled snakes. 
 
 Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear. 
 His crested snakes, and arm'd his bristling hair. 
 The prudent sibyl had before prepar'd 
 A sop, in honey stecp'd, to charm the guard. 
 Which, mix'il with powerful drugs, she cast before 
 His grcL'iiy, grinning jaws, just op'd to roar: 
 With three enormous mouths he gapes, and straight. 
 With hunger press'd, devours the pleasing bait. 
 Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave ; 
 lie reels, and falling fills the spacious cave. 
 The keeper charm'd, the chief without delay 
 Fass'd on, and took th' irremeable way. 
 
 She wrencird the jav'lin with her dying hands : 
 But wcd^'d within her breast the weapon stands; 
 The woiid she di-aws, the steely )>oint remairs. 
 She staggers in her seat, with agonizing pains ; 
 A gath'ring mist o'er clouds iier cheerful eyes. 
 And from Ivr elireks, the rosy colour llies. 
 Then turns to \\o\- whom, of hei- female train, 
 She trusted most, and thus slie sp(Niks witli pain, 
 Acca, 'tis past, he swims l)elbre my sight 
 Inexorable death, and claims his riglit.
 
 64 Dante. 
 
 Bear my last words to Turnus, flj with speed, 
 
 And bid him timely to my charge succeed, 
 
 Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve; 
 
 Farewell ; and in this kiss my parting breath receive 
 
 She said, and sliding, sunk upon the plain; 
 
 Dying, her ojDcn'd hand forsakes the rein; 
 
 Short, and more short, she pants ; by slow degrees 
 
 Her mind the passage from her body frees. 
 
 She drops her sword, she nods her pluming crest 
 
 Her drooping head declining on her breast; 
 
 In the last sigh her struggling soul expires, 
 
 And murm'ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires, 
 
 Weak as I am, can I, alas I contend 
 In arms with that inexo?-able fiend? 
 Now, now, I quit the field ! forbear to fight 
 My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night.' 
 The lashing of your wings I know too well: 
 The sounding flight, and fun'ral screams of hell ! 
 These a)-ethe gifts you bring from haughty Jove, 
 The worthy recompence of ravish'd love! 
 Did he for this exempt my life from fate ? 
 O hard conditions of immortal state ! 
 Though born to death, nor privelegxi to die, 
 But forc'd to bear impos'd eternity] 
 Take back your envious bribes, and let me go, 
 Companion to my brother's ghost below ! 
 The joys are vanish'd : nothing now remains 
 Of life immortal, but immortal pains. 
 What earth will open her devouring womb, 
 To rest a weary goddess in the tomb ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 Dante. The cities of Italy contend as eagerly for the honour 
 of this great poet's work, as those of Greece once did for that of 
 H omer's nativity. His great poem the Divina Comniedia, contains 
 the description of a vision, in which, with Virgil sometimes for his 
 guide, the poet is conducted through hell, and purgatory, and 
 paradise; and indulged with the sight and conversation of various 
 persons. It is evident that the sixth book of the /Eneid, which con- 
 tains the descent of /Eneas into the infernal regions, suggested the 
 general outline; although according to\Varton,it might have been
 
 Dante, 65 
 
 suggested by the Somniuin Scipionis of Cicero, and however 
 
 inferior Dante may be thought to his great prototype, it is with 
 
 peculiar pleasure we peruse the following lines, which show that the 
 
 bard of Mantua after the long lapse of ages of tasteless ignorance, 
 
 had found a reader who could admire and rival his beauties. Art 
 
 thou Virgil? he asks, on his firit presenting himself to his view : 
 
 "Oh degli altri poeti onore e lume 
 Vagliaml '1 luiirro studio, e'l grande amore, 
 Che m'han fatto cercar lo tuo volume. 
 Tu se 'lo mio maestro, el mio autore ; 
 Tu se solo colui, du cu' io tolsi 
 Lo bello stile, che m'ha fatto onore." 
 
 "Glory and liglit of all the tuneful train ! 
 May it avail me, that I long with zeal 
 Have sought thy volume, and with love immense 
 Have oonn'd it o'er, ily master tliou, and guide ! 
 Tliou be IVoin whom alone I have derived 
 1'hat style, which for its beauty into fame 
 ICxaits me." 
 
 But this mntters little, Milton might have originally sought the 
 
 seminal hint of his groat work from a similar source. In the words 
 
 of Dante himself, 
 
 "Poca fivilla gran liamma seconda." 
 
 // Paradise. Can 1. 
 
 " from a small spark 
 
 Great flame liath risen,'" Carv. 
 
 If we want the true origin of Dante's sublime work, we may find 
 it in his own words'- 1 found the Originai, of MY Hkll in the 
 Wdki.n which we inhabit." And this principle seems illustrated in 
 all our great poets : we find that c\cry great genius is influenced 
 by the objects and tlic feelings which occupy his own times, only 
 differing from the race of his Ijrnihers by the magical force of his 
 developments ; the light he sends forth over the world, he often 
 catches from the faint and unolisetxcd spark, which would die away 
 and turn to nothing in another hantl, 
 
 'V\\c Dii'Iii.i t'(v;/w< (/.'(? abounds with wild and extravagant pass- 
 age^; tiie poet's inmgesare often unnatural ; he uiakes Virgil utter the 
 most absurd remarks ; his vcises are frec[uently unsuftcrcdjK' harsh, 
 and his rhymes void of euphony : but these faults are compensated 
 by the highest beaiuies ; an imagination of the richest kind ; a style
 
 66 Dante. 
 
 sublime, pathetic, and animated; and passages of the most exquisite 
 tenderness. The genius of man never produced a more pathetic 
 story, than that contained in the 33rd canto of this work, the 
 story of Count Ugolino and his children. 
 
 He has displayed in this story more true poetry than in the best 
 of his fictions. The poet wandering through the depths of hell, 
 sees two of the damned knawing the skulls of each other, which 
 was their daily food. He inquires the meaning of this dreadful 
 repast. 
 
 O tu che uiostri per si bestial segno 
 Odio sovra cohii che tu ti nmngi; 
 Uimmi "1 perche, diss'is per tal convegno: 
 
 Che se tu a ragion di lui ti piangi, 
 Sappiendo chi voi siete e la sua pecca, 
 Nel inondj suso aiicor io te ne eaiigi; 
 Se quella, con ch'io parlo, nou si secca.''; 
 
 " O thou ! who sbow'st so beastly sign of hate 
 'Gainst hiui thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I 
 
 The cause, on such condition, that if right 
 Warrant my grievance, knowing who ye are. 
 And what the colour of his sinning was, 
 I may repay thee in the world above, 
 If that, wherewith I speak, be moist so long."' 
 
 Ugolino, quitting his companion's half-devoured skull, begins his 
 tale to this effect. " We are Ugolino, count of Pisa, and archbishop 
 Ruggieri. Trusting in the perfidious counsels of Ruggieri, I was 
 brought to a miserable death. I was committed with four of my 
 children to the dungeon of hunger. The time came when we 
 expected food to be brought. Instead of which, I heard the gates 
 of the horrible tower more closely barred. I looked at my child- 
 ren, and could not speak. 
 
 ' L'hora sappressava 
 
 C'lie'l cibo ne solera essere adotto : 
 
 E per suo sogno ciascun diibitava. 
 
 Ed io seiiti chiorar I'nscio di sotto. 
 
 Al' orribiU torre ond 'io guardai : 
 
 ]S^el viso a raiei il^fliuoi, s;i;za far moito." 
 
 " I could not complain, I was petrified. My children cried : and ,y^ 
 
 my little Anselm, Aucehnuccio iiiio, said Failicr, yon lock on ns, 
 
 what is the viatier .' 
 
 " In guardi si padre, che hai ? "
 
 Dante. 67 
 
 "I could neither weep, nor answer, all that day and the follow- 
 ing night. When the scanty rays of the sun began to glimmer 
 through the dolorous prison, 
 
 " Oom'iim poco di raggio si fu messo 
 Nel doloroso carcere, " 
 
 and I could again see those four countenances on which my own 
 
 image was stamped, I knawed both my hands for grief. My child- 
 
 dren supposing I did this through a desire to eat, lifting themselves 
 
 suddenly up, exclaimed. " O father, our grief would be less if 
 
 you would eat us !" 
 
 " Anibo le maiii per dolor mi inorsi : 
 E quel pensando ch'io '1 fessi per voglia, 
 Di inatiicar di subito levorsi 
 E disser, Fadre, assai ci fia men doglia. 
 Se tu mangi di noi ! " 
 
 " I restrained myself that I might not make them more miserable. 
 
 We were all silent, that day and the following. Ah, cruel earth, 
 
 why did'st thou not swallow us up at once?'' 
 
 " Quel di, et I'altro, stommo tiitti muti, 
 Ahi ! dura terra, percbe noii 1' apristi ? " 
 
 " The fourth day being come, Gaddo falling all along at my feet, 
 cried out, ' My falher, luhy do you not help nie, ' and died. The 
 other three expired one after the other, between the fifth and sixth 
 days, famished as you see me now. And 1, being seized with blind- 
 ness began to crawl over them so~c>ra ciascicno, on hands and feet ; 
 and for tliree days after they were de.id, continued calling them by 
 tlieir names. At length, famine finislied my torments." Having 
 said this the poet adds, 'with distorted eyes he again fixes his teeth 
 on the mangled skull' Gary has beautifully translated this passage 
 in the following language : 
 
 "His jaws uplil'ting tVoin their full repiist, 
 
 'Jliat siimor wiped tliem ('ii the liairs u'the head, 
 
 'W'hieh hi' lichiiid had iii;iiiu'lcd then began : 
 
 ''J'liy will (.bcving, I ciill ii[) .'ifroa.-h 
 
 ForiMiw p:irt eni'f ; wl:'(.-h. but to tliiiik of. wrings 
 
 My lieart, or ere 1 tell oii't. 15ut if words, 
 
 That I may ntttr. Av.\\\ pi-nvi- seed to boat- 
 
 Fruit ofetrnial ii.lnluv luliini. 
 
 The ti'aiioi- whom I gnaw ai. ihnj at nnce 
 
 Shall sec me .'peak and weep. ^Vho ihoii niay.--t be
 
 68 Dante 
 
 I know not. nor how here below art come : 
 
 But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, 
 
 \Vhen 1 do bear thee. Know. I was on earth 
 
 Count Ugolino. and the Archbishop he 
 
 Euggieri. Why I neighbour him so close, 
 
 Kow list. That through effect of his ill thoughts 
 
 In him my trust reposing. I was ta'en 
 
 And after murder'd, need is not I tell. 
 
 What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, 
 
 How cruel was the murder, bhalt thou hear, 
 
 And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate 
 
 Within that mew, which for my sake the name 
 
 Of famine bears, where others yet must pine. 
 
 Already through its opening several moons 
 
 Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep 
 
 That from tiie future tore the curtain off. 
 
 This one, nicthougbt. as master of the sport. 
 
 Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf, and his whelps, 
 
 Unto the mountain which forbids the sight 
 
 Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs 
 
 Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged 
 
 Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Guiilandi. 
 
 After ehort course the father and the sons 
 
 Seem'd tired and Ingging. and niethought I saw 
 
 The shai-p tusks gore their sides. When I awoke, 
 
 Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard 
 
 My SODS (for they were with me) weep and ask 
 
 For bread. Right ciniel art tliou. if no pans 
 
 Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold : 
 
 And if not now, why use thy tears to flow? 
 
 Now had they waken'd ; and the houi- drew near 
 
 When they were wont to bring us food ; the mind 
 
 Of each misgave him through his dream, and I 
 
 Heard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up 
 
 The horrible tower: whence. uttcM-ing not a word 
 
 1 look'd upon the visage of Jny sons. 
 
 I wept not : so all stone I felt within. 
 
 They wept : and one, my little Anselm. cried. 
 
 'Thou lookest so 1 Father, what ails Ihee?' Yet 
 
 I shed no tear, nor an.-wei''ti all that day 
 
 ISw the next night, until another sun 
 
 Came out upon the world. When a faint beam 
 
 Had to our doleful pi-ison made its way, 
 
 And in four countenances I desci'ied 
 
 The image of my own. on either haul 
 
 Through agony I bit ; And they, who thought 
 
 I did it through desire of feeding, rose 
 
 O' the sudden, and cried. "Fathei-. we should grieve 
 
 'Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gavcst 
 
 These weeds of miso'abje flesh we wcai- ; 
 
 And do you sti^ip them olT from ii~ again.'
 
 Dante. 69 
 
 Tlien. not to iiuik^them sadder, I kept down 
 
 My spirit in stillness. That day and the next 
 
 Wc nil were silent. Ah, obdui-ate earth ! 
 
 Why open'dst not upon iis? When we came 
 
 To the fourth day. then Gaddo at my feet 
 
 Ontstretch'd did lling him, crying, 'IFast no help 
 
 ' For uie, my fatherl ' There he died; and e'en 
 
 Plaiidy as thou seest me. saw I the three 
 
 hall one hy one 'twixt the fifth day aiid sixth : 
 
 Whence 1 betook me, now grown blind, to grope 
 
 Over them all, and for three days aloud 
 
 Caird on them who were dead. Then, fasting got 
 
 The mastery of grief.'' Thus having spoke. 
 
 Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth 
 
 He fasten'd like a uiastifl's 'gainst the bone. 
 
 Firm and unyielding. Oh, thou Pisa ! shame 
 
 Of all the people, who their dwelling make 
 
 In that fair region, where the Itiilian voice 
 
 Is heard : since that thy neighbours are so shick 
 
 'i'o punish, iVom their deep ibuiidations rise 
 
 Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up 
 
 Tlie mouth ol' .Irno ; that each soul in thee 
 
 May perish in the waters. M'lint if fame 
 
 Kepiirted that thy c.istles were hetray'd 
 
 By Ugolino. yet no right hadst thou 
 
 To stretch his cliildren on the rack. For them, 
 
 Brigata, Uguccione, and the jtair 
 
 Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told. 
 
 Their tender years, thou modern Tliebes, did make 
 
 Uncapalile of guilt." 
 
 The conception of the Divuia CoDimcdia is framed on a scale 
 of magniticcnce, and the parts so wonderfully developed, that 
 Dante ranks among the if^w minds to whom the power to a great 
 creative faculty can fairly be ascribed. The Divine Comedy is 
 a personal narrative, Dante is the eye-witness and ear-witness 
 of that which he relates. He is the very man who has heard 
 the tormented spirits crying out for the second death, who has 
 read the dusky cliaracters on the portals within which there is 
 no hope. .As .Macaulay finely remarks, ''His own hands liave 
 graspeti the shaggy sides of Lueiter, his own feet have climbed 
 the mountains of expiation; his own ])row his been marked by 
 the purifying angel. 'I'ii'-' tlisiinguishing eliaiactcr ofDanie is his 
 intensity of feeling. Tlic melancholy of D.mlc was no fistidious 
 caprice, it was not the eli'cct of external circumstances, it was
 
 70 Dante. 
 
 from within. It turned every consolation and every pleasure into 
 
 its own nature. His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew 
 
 poet, ' a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where the light 
 
 was as darkness.' The gloom of his character discolours all the 
 
 passages of men,, and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own 
 
 livid hue, the flowers of Paradise and the glories of the eternal 
 
 throne."* At the commencement of this work Dante is bewildered 
 
 in an unfrequented forest ; he attempts to climb a mountain, whose 
 
 summit is illuminated by the rising sun. 
 
 " In the midway of this our mortal life, 
 I found me in a gloomy wood, astray, 
 Gone from the path direct : and e'en to tell, 
 It were no easy task, how savage wild 
 That forest, how robust and rough its growth, 
 Which to remember only, my dismay 
 Renews, in bitterness not far from death. 
 Yet, to discourse of what there good befel, 
 All else will I relate discovered there. 
 
 How first I eiiter'd it I scarce can say, 
 Such sleepy dulness in that instant vveigh'd 
 My senses down, when the true path I left ; 
 But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where closed 
 The valley that had pierced my heart with dread, 
 I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad 
 Already vested with that planet's beam, 
 Who leads all wanderers safe through every way." 
 
 A furious leopard, pressed by hunger, and a lion at whose appear- 
 ance, the air is ajfrighted, accompanied by a she-wolf oppose his 
 progress; and force him to fly precipitately into the profundities of 
 a pathless valley, where the sun was silent. ("Mi ripingevala 
 dove'l Sol tace.") 
 
 "The hour was morning's prime, and on his way 
 Aloft the sun ascended with those stars, 
 That witli him rose, when Love divine first moved 
 Those iis fair works : S3 that with jovoLis hope 
 All things conspired to fill me, the gay skin 
 Of that swift animal, the matin dawn. 
 And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chased, 
 And by new dread succeeded, when in view 
 A lion came, 'gainst me as it appear'd, 
 With his head held aloft and hunger-mad. 
 That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf 
 
 * Macauiay's Essays.
 
 Dante, 
 
 Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd 
 Full of all wants, and many a land hath made 
 Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear 
 O'erwhelm'd me, at the sight of her appall'd, 
 That of Ihe height all hope T lost. As one, 
 Who, with his gain elated, sees the time 
 When all unwares is gone, he inwardly 
 Mourns with heart-griping anguish ; such was I, 
 Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace, 
 Who coming o'er against me, by degrees 
 Impell'd me, where the sun m silence rests." 
 
 In the middle of a vast solitude he perceives a spectre, of whom 
 
 he implores pity and help, 
 
 " Mentre ch 'io ruinava in basso loco, 
 Dinanzi agli occhi mi si fu offerto 
 Chi per limgo silenzio parea fioco. 
 
 Quand' i' vidi costui nel gran diserto: 
 Miserere di me, gridai a lui, 
 Qual che tu sii od ombra, od uomo certo." 
 
 " While to the lower space with backward step 
 I fell, my ken discern'd the form of one. 
 Whose voice seemed faintthrough long disuse of speech 
 When him in that great desert I espied, 
 " Have mercy on me." cried I out aloud 
 "Spirit ! or living man ! whate'er thou be." 
 
 The spectre hastens to his cries: it was the shade of Virgil whom 
 
 Beatrice, Dante's mistress had sent, to give him courage, and to 
 
 guide him into the legends of hell. Virgil begins a long discourse 
 
 with Dante: and expostulates with him for choosing to wander 
 
 through the rough obscurities of a barren and dreary vale, when 
 
 the top of a neighbouring mountain afforded every delight. 
 
 Ma tu, pcrche ritorni a tanta noia ? 
 Perchc non sali il dilcttoso monte, 
 Ch 'e principio c cagion di tutta gioa? 
 
 " But thou, say wherefore to such perils past 
 Return'st thou? whcrcfive not this pleasant mount 
 A.sccndest, cause and source of all deliglit? " 
 
 The conversation of Virgil and the name I'f Beatrice, by degrees 
 
 dissipate the fears of the poet, who explains his situation. He 
 
 returns to himself, and compares this revival of his strength and 
 
 spirits to a flower smitten by the frost of night, which again lifts its 
 
 shrinking head, and expands its vivid colours, at the first gleam- 
 
 ings of the morning sun.
 
 72 Dante. 
 
 "Quale i foretti dal nottunio gielo 
 Chirialie ehiusi, poi che'l Sol gl' imbi.anca, 
 Li drizzan tulti aperti in loro stelo ; 
 Tal mi f'cc'io di mia virtude staiica. '' 
 
 "As florets, by the frosty air of night 
 Bentdowii and closed, when day had blanch'd their leaves 
 Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems ; 
 So was my fainting vigour new restored, " 
 
 This poem abounds in comparisons of this kind. In Canto XXIV 
 of the Inferno, in the passage where Virgil is angry with Dante, 
 but is soon reconciled ; the poet compares himself to a cottager in 
 the early part of a promising spring, who looks out in the morning 
 from his humble shed, and sees the fields covered with a severe 
 and unexpected frost. But the sun soon melts the ground, and he 
 drives his goats afield. 
 
 "In the year's early nonage, when the sun 
 
 Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn. 
 
 And now towards equal day the nights recede; 
 
 When as the rime upon the earth puts on 
 
 Her dazzling sister's image, but not long 
 
 Her milder sway endures ; then riseth up 
 
 The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, 
 
 And looking out beholds the plain around 
 
 All whiteu'd ; whence impatiently ho smites 
 
 His thighs, and to his hut i-eturning in, 
 
 There paces to and fro, wailing his lot. 
 
 As a discomfited and helpless miui : 
 
 Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope 
 
 Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon 
 
 The world had changed its countenance, grasps his crook 
 
 And forth to pasture drives his little flock: 
 
 So me uiy guide dishearten'd, when I saw 
 
 His troubled forehead ; and so speedily 
 
 That ill was cured ; for at the fallen bridge 
 
 Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, 
 
 He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld 
 
 At the steep mountain's foot." 
 
 Dante, therefore, under the conduct of Virgil penetrates hell. 
 He describes his hell to be a prodigious and almost bottomless 
 abyss, which from its aperture to its lowest depth preserves a ro- 
 tund shape : or rather an immense perpendicular cavern, which 
 opening as it descends into different circles, forms so many distinct 
 subterranean regions. We are struck with horror at the com- 
 mencement of this dreadful adventure.
 
 Dante, 73 
 
 The first object which the poet perceives is a gate of brass, over 
 which were inscribed in characters of a dark hue, (di colore ofcuro) 
 
 these verses : 
 
 "Per me si va nella citta dolente ; 
 Per me si va nell' eterno dolore ; 
 Per me si va tra la perduta gente, 
 Giustizia mosse'l mis alto fattore ; 
 Feceme la divinia potestate, 
 La somma Sapienzia, e I'primo Amore 
 Dinanzi a me non fur cose create ; 
 Se non eterne, ed io duro etenio. 
 Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch 'entraste."^^''^"^- ^^^) 
 
 That is, " By me is the way to the woeful city. By me is the way 
 to the eternal pains. By me is the way to the damned race. My 
 maker was divine Justice and Power, the supreme Wisdom 
 and the First Love. Before me nothing was created. If not 
 eternal, I shall eternally remain. Put away all hope, ye that 
 enter;" or as Gary has rendered it, 
 
 "Through me you pass into the city of woe : 
 Througli nie you puss into eternal pain : 
 Througli me among the people lost for aye. 
 Justice the founder of my fabric moved : 
 To rear me was tiie task of power divine, 
 Supremest wisdom, and primval love. 
 Before mo things create were none, save things 
 Eternal, and eternal I endure. 
 All hope abandon, ye who enter here. " 
 
 Milton evidently remembered this passage of Dante, and the 
 exclusion of hope from hell in the passage where he describes, 
 
 "Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
 And rest can nm'er dwell, I/a/^c' never comes 
 That comes to all." (Far. L., I. 05,^ 
 
 Then follows numerous, dialogues and adventures with spirits, 
 which he meets in the course of his infernal journey; wherein 
 the reader may see much of the politics and facts of the times at 
 which Dante lived. 
 
 The short comparison by Viri;il of the souls lingering on the 
 banks of Lethe, to the numerous leaves falling from the trees in 
 autumn, Dante has beautifullyj^nlarged. 
 
 K
 
 74 Dante. 
 
 " Come d' Autumno si levan le foglie 
 L'un appresso del ' altra, infin ebe'l ramo 
 Vede a la terre tutte le sue, spoglie ; 
 Sitiiilinentp, il mal seitie d" Adaiiio 
 Qette si di quel lits ad una ad una 
 Per cenni, coiii'augpl per suo richiamo," 
 
 " As fall ofFthe light autumnal leaves, 
 One still another following, till the bough 
 Strews all its honours on the eartli beneath ; 
 E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood 
 Cast themselves, one by one, down from the shore, 
 Each at a beck, as falcon at his call." 
 
 Milton also employs this comparison in his Paradise Lost. 
 
 'Thick as autumnal leaves, that strew the brooks 
 In Yallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades, 
 High over-arched in bower." {Book I. ^04.) 
 
 Among many other of his friends, Dante sees Francisca, the 
 daughter of Guido di Polento ; and Paulo one of the sons of Mala- 
 testa Lord of Rimini. This lady fell in love with Paulo ; the 
 passion was mutual, and she was betrothed to him in marriage : 
 but her family chose rather that she should be married to Lanciottc, 
 Paulo's eldest brother. This match had the most fatal consequences. 
 The injured lovers could not dissemble or stifle their affection: they 
 were surprised, and both assassinated by Lanciotto. Dante finds 
 the shades of these distinguished victims of an unfortunate attach- 
 ment at a distance from the rest, in a region of his Inferno desolated 
 by the most violent tempests. 
 
 'Into a place I came 
 Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan'd 
 A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn 
 By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell 
 With restless fury drives the spirits on, 
 Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy 
 When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, 
 There shrieks are lienrd, their lamentations moans, 
 And blasjihemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven. 
 I understood, that to this torment sad 
 The carnal sinners are condemn'd, in whom 
 Eeason by lust is sway'd. As in large troops 
 And multitudinous, wljen winter reigns, 
 The starlings on their wings are borne abroad ; 
 So bears the tryannous gust those evil souls. 
 On this side and on that, above, below,
 
 Dante. 75 
 
 It drives them : hope of rest to solace them 
 la none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes, 
 Chanting their dolorous notes, traverse the sky, 
 Stretch'd out in long array ; so I beheld 
 Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on 
 By their dire doom." 
 
 Dante accosts them both, and Frascisca relates their history. Yet 
 the conversation is carried on with some difficulty, on account of 
 the impetuosity of the storm which was perpetually raging. 
 
 " Of whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse 
 It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that 
 Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, 
 As now is mute." 
 
 Dante, who from many circumstances of his own amours, appeared 
 to have possessed the most refined sensibilities, about the delicacies 
 of love, enquires in what manner when in the other world they 
 first communicated their passion to each other. 
 
 " Fraiicesca ! your sad fate 
 Even to tears my grief and pity moves. 
 But tell nie; in the time of your sweet sighs, 
 By what, and how Love granted, that ye knew 
 Your j-et uncertain wishes?" 
 
 Francesca answers, that they were one day sitting together, and 
 
 reading the romance oi Lancelot ; where two lovers are represented 
 
 in the same critical situation with themselves. Their changes of 
 
 colour and countenance, while they were reading, often tacitly 
 
 betrayed their yet undiscovered feelings. 
 
 'Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto 
 'J)i Lancilotto, comme amor lo strinse; 
 Soli eravamo. et scnza alcun sospetto. 
 Per piu fiate gli ocehi ci soppin.se 
 Quella lettui-a et scolorocci il viso:" 
 
 One day. 
 For our delight we rriul ol Lancelot. 
 How him lovo thriiird. Alone we were, and no 
 
 Su?^picioii near u.-:. Ol't-linios by that ronding 
 Our fvc^ wfi'c (lrn\Mi. Ioi^ciIkm-, and the liue 
 Fled tr..iii iiur uIiit'c! check." 
 
 When thev came to that passage in tlie Koniancc. wlierc the lovers 
 after many tender aproachcs, are gradually drawn h\ one uniform
 
 76 Dante ^ 
 
 reciprocation of involuntary attraction to kiss each other, the book 
 dropped from their hands. 
 
 "Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci yinse. 
 
 Quando leggemmo il disiato riso 
 Esser baciato da cotanto aniante, 
 Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, 
 
 La bocea mi bacio tremante : 
 Galeotto f'u il libro e cbi lo scrisse : 
 Quel giorno piu non vi leggemmo avante, " 
 
 "But at one poinf, 
 Alone we fell. "When of that smile we read, 
 The wished smile, so rupturouslj kiss'd 
 By one so depp in love, tht^n he, who ne'er 
 From me shoU separate, at once my lips 
 All trembling kiss'd. The book and wriierboth 
 Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day 
 We read no more." 
 
 While they are wandering along the banks of Phlegethon, as the 
 
 twilight of evening approaches, Dante suddenly hears the sound 
 
 of a horn more loud than thunder. 
 
 "Noi demmo '1 dojso al misoro vallone 
 Su per la ripn, che'l cinge dintorno, 
 At traversando seiiza idcim sermone. 
 
 Quivi era men che iiotte enien che gioino, 
 Si che'l viso m'andava iniianzi poco : 
 Ma io senti' sonare un alto corno 
 
 Tanto, che avrebbe ogni tuon fatto fioco." 
 
 " Ti'rning our back upon the vale of woe, 
 We cross'd the encircled mound in silence. There 
 "Was less than day and less thnn night, thiit far 
 Mine eye advanced not : but I heard a horn 
 Sounded so loud, the peal it rang had made 
 The thunder feeble. Following its course 
 The adverse ^vay, my strained eyes were bent 
 On that spot. So terrible a blast 
 Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout 
 O'erthrew the host of Charlemain, and quench'd 
 His saintly warfare."' 
 
 Dante descries through the gloom, what he thinks to be many 
 
 high and vast towers, (molte alte to7-rt.) These are the giants who 
 
 warred against heaven, standing in a row, half concealed within 
 
 and half visible out of an immense abyss or pit. 
 
 'Poco portai in la voUa la testa, 
 Che mi parve veder molte alte torri ; 
 Ond "io : Maestro di,' che terra e questa ?
 
 Dante. *J*l 
 
 "Ed gli a rae : Pero che tu trascorri 
 Per le tenebre troppo dalla lungi, 
 Avvien che poi nel maginare aborri : 
 
 Tu vedrai ben, se tu la ti conguingi 
 Quanto'l senso s'ingaiina di lontaiio : 
 Pero alquanto piu te stesso pungi. 
 
 Poi caramente mi prese per niano, 
 E disse : Pria che noi slam pin avanti, 
 Acciocche'l fatto men ti paia strano, 
 
 Sappi, che non son torri, ma giganti : 
 E son nel pozzo iiitorno dalla ripa, 
 Dall 'umbilico in guiso, tutti quanti." 
 
 " Thitherward not long 
 My head was raised, when many a lofty tower 
 Methoiight I spied. ".Master," said I, "what land 
 Is this? ' ]fe aiiswer'd sti-aiglit : ' Too long a space 
 Ot intervening darkness has i liine eye 
 To traverse : thou bast tlierefore widely err'd 
 In thy imagining. 'Jhiiher arrived 
 Thou well shall s(p, liow di.statice can delude 
 The spn^e. A little iheret'oro urge thee on." 
 Then tenderly he caught me by the hand ; 
 "Yet know," snid he, "'ere farther we advance, 
 That it less strange may seem, tliese are not towers, 
 But giants. In the pit, thoy stand innnersed, 
 Each from his navel downwaid, round the bank," 
 
 One of them cries out to Dante with a horrible voice. 
 " Comincio a gridar la (lera bocca, 
 Cui non si convcnien pui dolce salmi." 
 
 "So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns 
 Became not :" 
 
 Another is clothed in iron and covered with huge chains. 
 
 " Faceninio adunquepiu lungo viaggio, 
 Volti a sinistra : ed ul trar d'un balestro 
 Trovammo I'altro, assui pui fiero e maggio. 
 
 A cinger lui, qual che fosse il maestro, 
 Non so io dir : ma ei tcnea succinto 
 Dinanzi I'altro, e dietro '1 braccio deStra, 
 
 D'una catena che 1 tenoa avvinto 
 Dal coUo in giu si cho'n su lo scoperto 
 Si ravvolgeva iiifino al giro quinto."_ 
 
 ''Then to the leftward turning sped we forth, 
 And at a slinff's throw found another shade 
 Far fiercer and more huge. 1 cannot suy 
 Wiiat master h'lnd had girt him ; but he held 
 Behind the right arm fetter'd, and before.
 
 78 Dante. 
 
 The other, with a chain, that fasten'd him 
 
 From the neck down ; and five times round his form 
 
 Apparent met the wreathed links." 
 
 Dante wishes to see Briareus, he is answered that he is in an 
 
 inner cavern biting his chains. 
 
 "S'esser puote, i 'vorrei 
 Che dello smisurato Briareo 
 Esperienza avesser gli occhi miei. 
 
 Ond'ei rispose : Tu vedrai Anteo 
 Presso di que, cha parla, ed e disciolto; 
 Che ne porra nel fondo d'ogni reo. 
 
 Quel, cbe tu Tuoi Tcder, piu la e molto ; 
 Ed e legato, e fatto come questo ; 
 Salvo cbe piu feroce par nel volto." 
 
 "Fain would I, if twere possible, mine eyes, 
 Of Briareus immeasurable, gain'd 
 Experience next." He answer'd : "Thou shalt see 
 Isot far from hence Antfeus, who both speaks 
 And is unfettpr'd, who shall place us there 
 Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands 
 Whom thou wouldstfain behold, in chains, and made 
 Like to this spirit, save that in his looks 
 iNIore fell be seems." 
 
 Immediately Ephialtes arose from another cavern, and shook 
 
 himself like an earthquake. 
 
 "Non tu tremnoto mai tanto rubesto, 
 Cbe scotesse una torre eosi forte, 
 Come Fialte a scuotersi fu presto. " 
 
 "By violent earthquake rock'd 
 Ne'er shook a tower, so reeling to its base, 
 As Ephialtes, " 
 
 Dante then views the horn which had sounded so vehemently, 
 hanging by a leather thong from the neck of one of the giants, 
 Antaeus, whose body stands ten ells high from the pit, is command- 
 ed by Virgil to advance. 
 
 " Noi procedemmo piu avanti alotta, 
 E venimnio ad Anteo, cbe ben cinqu alle, 
 Senza la testa, uscia fuor della grotta." 
 
 " We, straightway journeying on 
 
 Came to Anteeus, w)io, five ells complete 
 Without the head, forth issued from the cave.'' 
 
 They both mount on his shoulders and are thus carried about 
 Cocytus.
 
 Dante, 79 
 
 Fatti 'n qua si ch' io ti prenda. 
 Poi fece si, ch'un fascio er'egli ed io, 
 
 Qual pare a riguardar la Carisenda 
 Sol to '1 chinato, qiiando uii nuvol vada 
 Sovr'essa ei ch'ella In contrario penda ; 
 
 Tal parve Aiiteo a me, die stava e bada 
 Di vederlo cliiiiare : e fu tal era, 
 Cli'i' awei voluto gir per altra strada. 
 
 Ma lievemente al fondo, che divora 
 Lucil'ero con Giuda, ci poso : 
 Ne si chinato li fece diinora 
 
 Ma come albero in nave si levo. " 
 
 "Soon as my guide 
 Had felt it, he bespake me thus: "This way, 
 That I may clasp thee ;" then so caught me up. 
 That we were bolli one biu-den. As appears 
 Tlie tower of Carisenda, from beneath 
 Where it ddth lean, if chance a passing cloud 
 To sail across, that opposite it hangs ; 
 Such then Antajus seeui'd, as at mine ease 
 I mai'k'd him stooping, I were fain at times 
 To have passed another way. Yet in the abyss, 
 Tiiat Lucifer with .Judas k)W ingulfs, 
 Lightly ho placed us; iu>r, there leaning, stay'd ; 
 But rose, as in a bark tlie stately mast." 
 
 One of the torments of the damned in Dante's Inferno, is the 
 punishment of being eternally confined in lakesof ice. The ice is 
 described to be like that of the Danube or Tanais. This species of 
 infernal torment, which is neither directly warranted by scripture 
 nor suggested in the systems of the Platonic fabulists has its origin 
 in the legendary hell of the monks. Both Shakespeare and Milton 
 have adopted it. Warton says, " the hint seems to have been ta- 
 ken from the Book of Job dilated by St. Jerome and the early 
 commentators. ^'Droin^ht and Jieat cotisuine the snoiu waters: so 
 doth the grave those ivliich have siinied. " The torments of hell, 
 in which the punishment by cold is painted at large had formed a 
 visionary romance, under the name of St. Patrick's Purgatory or 
 Cave, long before Dante wrote. " 
 
 "Per ch 'lo mi volsi, o vidimi davanto 
 E sotto i piedi im lago, uhe per gielo 
 Avea ili vetro, e non il'acqiia, seuibiaute. 
 
 Non fece al corso s\m ei grosso velo 
 Di verno la Danoiu in Austericch,
 
 80 Dante. 
 
 Ne il Tanai la sotto lo freddo cielo. 
 
 Com 'era quf vi : ehe se Tabernicch 
 Vi fosse Bu caduto, o Pietrapana, 
 Non avria piu dall 'orlo fatto criech. 
 
 E come a gracidar si sta la rana 
 Col muse fuor dell 'acqua, quaiido sogna 
 Di spigolar sovente la villana, 
 
 Livide iiisin la dove appar vergogna, 
 Eran Tombre dolenti iiella gbiaocia, 
 Mettendo i denti in nota di cicogna, 
 
 Ognuna in giu tenea volta la faccia : 
 Da bocca '1 freddo, e dagli occbi '1 cuor tristo 
 Tra lor testimonianza si procaccia. " 
 
 " Thereupon I turn'd, 
 And saw beneath and underneath my feet 
 A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd 
 To glass thiin water. Not so thick a veil 
 In water e'er hath Austrian Danube spread 
 O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote 
 Under- the chilling sky, RoU'd o'er that mass 
 Had 'J'abernich or Pietrapana fiillen 
 Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog 
 Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams 
 The village gleaner oft pursues her toil. 
 So, to where modest shame appears, thus low 
 Blue pitich'd and shrined in ice the spii-its stood, 
 Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. 
 His face each downward held ; their mouth the cold 
 Their eyes expiess'd the dolour of their heart." 
 
 In some passages the guilty are made objects of contempt by a 
 
 transformation into beastly or ridiculous shapes, In others, the 
 
 human figure is rendered ridiculous by distortion. 
 
 " Jo era gia disposto tutto quanto 
 Arisgunrdar nello scoverto fondo, 
 Che si Imgi.'ava d'angoscioso )iianto : 
 
 E vidi geiite per lo valloii tondo 
 Venir. tacendo e lagrimando, al passo 
 Che fanno le letaiie in questo mondo," 
 
 "Earnest I look'd 
 Into the depth, that (.pen'd to my view, 
 Moisten'd with tears otanguish, and beheld 
 A tribe, that, cnme jdnng tiie hollow vale. 
 In silence weeping ; such their step as walk 
 Quires, chanting solemn litanies, on eaith." 
 
 "Mira c'ha fatt,o petto d(!lle spalle : 
 Perche voile veder ti-oppo davanle, 
 Dirietro guarda, e lia ritroso calle. "
 
 DaiUe. 81 
 
 'Lo ! how he makes 
 The breast his shoulders ; and who once too far 
 Before him wish'd to see, now backward looks, 
 And treads reverse his path." 
 
 There is one set of criminals whose faces are turned round towards 
 their backs, 
 
 "Come '1 viso mi scese in lor pin basso, 
 Mirabilmente apparve esser travolto 
 Ciascun dal mento al principio del casso : 
 
 Cho dalle reni era tomato '1 volto ; 
 Ed indietro venir gli couvcnia, 
 Perche'l veder dinanzi era lor tolto. 
 
 For.se per forza gia di parlasia 
 Si travolse cosi alcun del tut to ; 
 Ma io nol vidi, no credo che sia." 
 
 "As on them more direct mine eje descends, 
 Each wonderoiisly serni'd to be i-eversed 
 At I lie neck-bone, so that the coiintonance 
 Was IrOMi the reins n verted , and brcanse 
 Kone might before him look, they were compell'd 
 To advance with bncKward gait. Thus one perhaps 
 Hath been bj force of palsy clean transposed, 
 But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so, " 
 
 Dante's Purgatory is not on the whole less fantastic than his 
 Hell. As his hell was a vast perpendicular cavity in the earth, he 
 supposes Purgatory to be a cyhndric mass elevated to a prodigious 
 height. At intervals are recesses projecting from the outside of the 
 cylinder. In these recesses, some higher and some lower, the wick- 
 ed expiate their crimes, according to the proportion of their guilt. 
 From one department they pass to another by steps of stone ex- 
 ceedingly steep. On the top of the whole, or the summit of 
 Purgatory, is a platform adorned with trees and vegetables of every 
 kind. 
 
 "Come la seala tutta softo noi 
 Fu cors.i, e fiiiiiino in su '1 grado snperno, 
 In mo fic'co Virgilio gli occlii suoi, 
 
 JO dispc: 11 tpni[)oral. fuoco c I'otorno 
 Veduto hai, (iu'lio ; e so' vonnto in parte^ 
 Ovio ])or nio ))ii' oltro non discorno. 
 
 Tratio t'ho qui con ingogno o con arte : 
 Lo tuo pinoaro omai prondi per diico : 
 Fuor sp' doir erte vio. fuor sc dell' arte.
 
 82 , Dante. 
 
 Vedi il Sol, che in la fronio ti riluce ; 
 Yedi r erbetta, i fiori e gli arboscelli, 
 Che qiiella terra sol da se produce. 
 
 Mentre che vegnon lieti gli occhi belli 
 Che lagriiiiando a te venir mi f'enno, 
 Seder ti puoi, e piioi andar tra elli. 
 
 Non aspettar niio dir piu, ne mio cenno : 
 Libero, dritto, sano e lo tuo arbitrio ; 
 E fallo fora non fare a siio seiino: 
 
 Per eh' io te sopra te corono e mitrio." 
 
 " When we had run 
 
 O'er all the ladder to its topmost round, 
 
 As there we stood, on me the Mantuam fix'd 
 
 His eyes, and thus he spake : "Bolh fires, my son, 
 
 The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen ; 
 
 And art arrived, where of itself my ken 
 
 No further reaches. I, with skill and art. 
 
 Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take 
 
 For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way, 
 
 O'ercome the straiter. Lo ! the sun. that darts 
 
 His beam upon thy forehead : lo ! (he herb, 
 
 The arborets and flowers, which of itself 
 
 This land pours forth profuse. Till those briglit 
 
 With gladness come, which, weeping, iiiade me haste 
 
 To succour thee, thou mayst or seat thee down, 
 
 Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more 
 
 Sanction or warning voice or sign fi'om me, 
 
 Free of thy own arbitrcment to chuse. 
 
 Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sensi^ 
 
 Were henceforth error. I invest thee then 
 
 With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er th}self. " 
 
 The first canto contains an agreeable description of the first 
 
 region which he traverses after leaving Hell. The heavens are 
 
 tinged with sapphire, and the star of love, or the sun, makes all 
 
 the orient laugh. 
 
 'Dolce colord 'oriental zaffiro, 
 Che s' accoglieva nel sereno nspetto 
 Dell'aer puro, infiiio al primo giro, 
 
 Agli ocelli miei ricomincio diletto, 
 Tosto ch'io fiiori usci 'dell' aura morta, 
 Che m'avea conti-istato gli occhi c'l petto. 
 
 Lo bel i)ianpta, ch'ad amar conforta, 
 Faceva tutto rider I'oriente, 
 Yelando i Pesci ch'erano in sua scorta. " 
 
 "Sweet hue of eastei-n sapjohire, that was spread 
 O'er the serene nspect of the pureair, 
 High up as the first circle, to mine eyes
 
 Dante. 83 
 
 Unwonted joy renew'd, soon as I scap'd 
 Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom, 
 Tbat had mine eyes and bosom fill'd with grief. 
 Tlie riidiaiit planet, that to love invites, 
 Made all the orient laugli, and veil'd beneath 
 The Pisces' light, that in his escort came." 
 
 He sees a venerable sage approach. This is, Catoof Utica, who 
 astonished to see a living man in the mansion of ghosts, questions 
 Dante and Virgil about the vision which brought them hither. 
 
 "As from this view I had desisted, straight 
 Turning a little towards the other pole, 
 There from whence now the wain had disappear'd, 
 I saw an old man standing by niy side 
 Alone, so worthy of reverence in his look. 
 That ne'er from son to father more was owed. 
 Low down his beard, and mix'd with hoary white 
 Descended, like his locks, which, parting, fell 
 Upon his breast in double fold. The beams 
 Of those four luminaries on his face 
 So brightly shone, and with such radiance clear 
 Deck'il it, that I beheld him as the sun. 
 
 "Say who are ye, that stemming the blind stream, 
 Forth from the eternal prison-house have fled?" 
 Ue spoke and moved those venerable plumes, 
 
 "Who hath co.iducted, or with lantern sure 
 Lights you emerging from the depth of night, 
 That makes the infernal valley ever black? 
 Are the Arm statutes of the dread abyss 
 Broken, or in high heaven new laws ordain'd. 
 That thus, condemn'd, ye to my caves approach ?" 
 
 "Virgil answers : and Cato advises Virgil to wash Dante's face, 
 which was soiled with the smoke of Hell, and to cover his head 
 with one of the reeds which grew on the borders of the neighbour- 
 ing river. 
 
 " Not of myself I come ; a Dame from heaven 
 
 Descending, him besought me in my charge 
 
 To bring. Eut since thy will implies, that mor 
 
 Our true condititml untold at large. 
 
 Mine is not to deny thee thy request. 
 
 This mortal ne'er hath seen the farthest gloom, 
 
 Uut erring by his folly had approaeh'd 
 
 So ni>ar, that littl(> space was left to turn, 
 
 Then as before 1 told, I was desiiatch'd 
 
 To work his rescue ; and no way remain'd. 
 
 Save this whieh 1 have ta'en. I have display'd 
 
 Before him all the regions of the bad ;
 
 84 Dante, 
 
 And purpose now those spirits to display, 
 That under thy command are purged from sin. 
 How I have brought him would be long to say. 
 From high descends the virtue, by whose aid 
 I to thy sight and hearing him have led. 
 Now may our coming please thee. In the search 
 Of liberty he journeys : that how dear. 
 They know who for her sake have life refus'd." 
 * ***** 
 
 "Then by her love we implore thee, let us pass 
 Through (hy seven regions ; for which, best thanks 
 I for thy favour will to her return. 
 If mention there below thou not disdain." 
 ****** 
 " Go therefore now : and with a slender reed 
 See that thou duly gii-d him, and his face 
 Lave, till all sordid stain thou wipe from thence. 
 For not with eye, by any cloud obscured, 
 Would it be seemly before him to come, 
 Who stands the foremost minister in heaven. 
 This islet all around, there far beneath. 
 Where the wave beats it, on the oozy bed 
 Produces store of reeds. No ot'ier plant, 
 Cover'd with leaves, or harden'd in its stalk. 
 There lives, not bending to the water's sway, 
 After, Ibis way return not; but the sun 
 Will show you, that now rises, where to take 
 The mountain in its easiest ascent." 
 
 Virgil takes his advice ; and having gathered one reed, sees 
 another spring up in its place. This is the golden bough of Virgil's 
 iCneid, uno avulso non deficit alter. 
 
 " When we had come, whpre yet the tender dew 
 Strove with the sun, and in a place where fresh 
 The wind breathed o'er it, while it slowly dried : 
 Both hands extended on the watery grass 
 My master placed, in graceful act and kind. 
 Whence I of his intent before apprized, 
 Stretch'd out to him my cheeks suffused with teari. 
 There to my visage he anew restored 
 That hue wiiich the dun shades of hell conceal'd. 
 
 'J'hen on the solitary shore arrived, 
 Tliat never sailing on its waters saw 
 ifan that could after measure back his course, 
 He girt me m such manner as had pleased 
 Him who iiisti-ucteo ; and O strange to tell I 
 As he selected every humble ])laiit, 
 Wherever one was pluck'd, another there 
 Resembling, struighway in its place arose,"
 
 Dante. 85 
 
 There is a similarity also to Virgil in another place, where the 
 shades crowd to be ferried over Styx : but an angel performs the 
 office of Charon, admitting some into the boat, and rejecting others. 
 Then follows a continuance of wild scenes and adventures until 
 the twenty-first canto. A concussion of the earth announces the 
 deliverance of a soul from Purgatory. This is the soul of the poet 
 Stalius. 
 
 "The natiiraltliirst, ne'e r qiiench'd but from the well 
 Whereof the woman of Samaria craved, 
 Excited ; baste, along the cumljer'd path. 
 After my guide, iinpell'd ; and pity moved 
 My bosom for the 'vengeful doom though just, 
 When lo ! even so Lui^e relates, that Christ 
 Appear'd unto the two upon their way, 
 New-risen from iiis vaulted grave ; to us 
 A shade appear'd, and aft(>r us approach'd, 
 Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet." 
 
 Although a very improper companion for Virgil, Stalius imme- 
 diately joins our adventures, and accompanies them in their 
 progress. It is difficult to discover what pagan or christian idea 
 regulates Dante's dispensation of rewards and punishments. 
 Stalius passes from Purgatory to Paradise, Cato remains in the 
 place of expiation, and Virgil is condemned to eternal torments. 
 In the twenty-third Canto, Dante meets with his old acquaintance 
 Forese, a debauchee of Florence. On finishing the conversation, 
 Forese asks Dante when he shall again behold him. This question 
 in Purgatory is diverting enough. 
 
 "And ns a man, 
 Tired with the motion o( a trottir.g steed, 
 Sl.icks pace, and stays behind his company, 
 Till his o'erbri'atlicd lungs keeji temperate time; 
 E'en so I'^orese let tli:it liily crew 
 PmcH'd, behind them lingi-ring at mv side. 
 And saving : 'When sli ill I again behold thee !'" 
 
 Dante answers with much serious gravity, " I know not the time 
 of death : but it cannot be too near. Lookback on the troubles 
 in which my country is involved." 
 
 " How long my life may hist," said I, "Iknownot: 
 This know, how soon soever I return, 
 My wishes will before mo have arrived :
 
 86 Dante. 
 
 Sitlience t,he place, where I am set to live, 
 Is, day by, day, more scoop'd of all its good ; 
 And dismal niiii seems to threaten it. "' 
 
 Here again we lee the force of Dante's Posm, as a satirical his- 
 tory of his own times. But these pages will not allow me more 
 quotations from this work than the 'i^w examples I have given. 
 
 The Paradise of Dante, the third part of this Poem, resembles 
 his Purgatory. Its fictions and allegories, which would only suffer 
 by being translated and explained are all conceived in the same 
 chimerical spirit. The poet successively views the glory of the 
 saints, of angels, of the holy Virgin, and at last of God himself. 
 The poet's vision ends with the Deity, and we know not by what 
 miraculous assistance he returned. The close of the poem is 
 beautifully translated by Gary, as follows : 
 
 "As one, who fi-om a dream awaken'd, straight, 
 
 All be hath seen forgets ; yet still retains 
 
 Impression of the feeling in his dream ; 
 
 E'en such am I : for all the vision dies, 
 
 As 't were, away ; and yet the sense of sweety 
 
 That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart. 
 
 Thus in the snn-thaw is the snow unseal'd ; 
 
 Thus in the winds on flitling leaves was lost 
 
 The Sibyl's sentence. O eternal beam ! 
 
 (Whose heiglit whatreach of mortal thought may soar?) 
 
 Yield me again some little particle 
 
 Of what thou then appearedst ; give my tonguo 
 
 Power, but to leave one sparkle of thy glorv, 
 
 Unto tiie race to come, that shall not lose 
 
 Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught 
 
 Of memory in me, and endure to hear 
 
 The rociird sound in this unequal strain. 
 Such keenness from the living ray I met, 
 
 Tliat, if mine eyes hud turn'd away, melhinks 
 
 I had been lost ; but, so embolden'd, on 
 
 I pass'd, as I remember, till my view 
 
 Hover'd the brink of dread iiifiiiitade. 
 
 O gi-ace, unenvying of thy boon ! that gavest 
 
 Boldness to llx so earnestly my ken 
 
 On the everlasting splendour, that I look'd. 
 
 While sight was iniconsuined; and, in that depth, 
 
 Saw in one voliune clasp'd of love, whate'er 
 
 The universe unfolds ; ail properties 
 
 Of substance and of accident, bidield, 
 
 Compounded, yet one individual light 
 
 The whole. And of such bond methinks I saw
 
 Dante. 87 
 
 The universal form ; for that whene'er 
 
 1 do butepeak of U, my bouI dilates 
 
 Bejond her proper self: and, till I speak, 
 
 One moment seems a longer lethargy, 
 
 Than five-and-twenty ages had jippear'd 
 
 To that emprize, thai first made JSeptiine wonder 
 
 At Argo's shadow darkening on his Hood. 
 
 With fixed heed, suspense and motionless, 
 Wondering I gazed ; and admiration still 
 Was kindled as I gazed. It may not be, 
 That one, who looks upon that light, can turn 
 To other object, willingly, his view. 
 For all the good, that will may covet, there 
 Is sumnrd ; and all, elsewhere defective found, 
 Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no more 
 E'en what remembrance keeps, than could the bubes 
 That yet is moisten'd at his mother's breast, 
 Not that the semblance of the living light 
 Was changed (tuat ever as at first remain'd) 
 But that my vision quickening, in that sole 
 Appparnnco, still new miracles de.'^cried, 
 And toil'd me with the change. In that abyss 
 Of radiance, clear and lofty, seeni'd, methought. 
 Three orbs of triple hue, clii)t in one bound : 
 And, from another, one reflected seem'd, 
 As rainbow is from rainbow : and the third 
 Seem'd fire, breathed equally from both. speech I 
 How ft-eble and how faint art thou to give 
 Conception birth. Yet this to what I saw 
 Is less than little. O eternal light ! 
 Sole in thyself that dwell'st; and of thyself 
 Sole undcrstocKl, ])ast, present, or to come ; 
 Thou sniilcdst, on that circling, which in thee 
 Seem'd ns refiectcd splendour, while I mused ; 
 For I therein, methought. in its own hue 
 Beheld our iuinge painted : stedfastly 
 I therefore pored upon the view. As one. 
 Who versed in geometric lore would fain 
 Measure the circle : and, tiioneh pondering long 
 And deejily, that beuinning, which he neecls. 
 Finds not ; e'en such was 1, intent to scan 
 The novel woihIit, ;md trace out the form. 
 How to the circle liltiil. and therein 
 How placed ; Ivit the flight was not for niv wir,(.', 
 Had not a llasli darlcd athwart my nn'nd. 
 And. in the t|i!,-,.,,. im'.oldid what it siiught. 
 
 Here -viLtour fail'd the towering l'anla>v: 
 But yet the will i-oir 1 unwnrd. like a wheel 
 In even motji'ii, \\\ the love inipeH'fl, 
 That moves the sun in heaven and all the ~iai-^.
 
 b8 Dante. 
 
 Scarcely had this poem, we are told, seen the light, than the 
 public mind was seen as if by a charm. Copies were multiplied, 
 and comments written within the course of a few years. "Even 
 chairs," we read, "with honourable stipends, were founded 
 in Florence, Bologne, Pisa, Venice, and Piacenza ; whence able 
 professors delivered lectures on the Divina Commedia to an 
 admiring audience. " 
 
 We admire Dante the more when we consider what the 
 Italian poetry was before him merely an assemblage of rhymed 
 phrases on love or some moral topic, without being animated by 
 a single spark of genius. " Inspired by him whom he calls his 
 master (Virgil), he rose to the heights of real poesy ; spoke of 
 things not within the reach of human minds ; poured life into 
 inanimate nature ; and all this in a strain of language to which 
 as yet no ear had listened." Dante laid the ground work of a 
 better taste in poetry, and diffused throughout Italy, a spirit 
 of rivalry. He furnishes throughout his works, examples of the 
 age in which he lived, and which are scarcely credible in an 
 age like ours, in which nothing retains sufficient novelty to 
 make a strong impression. 
 
 Dante invested all the arts and literature of the age with a rich 
 colouring ; he has augmented the interest of his work by bringing 
 forward tlie well-known characters of the time in which he lived, 
 and telling their good and bad deeds without reserve. 
 
 This poet's work is entirely Gothic ; nothing of classical antiquity 
 resembles it ; it is a picture of his times alone, of his own ideas 
 and of the people about him, The terrors which Dante employs 
 were without doubt used as the most effective means of touch- 
 ing upon the religion of his age. According to Ugo Foscolo, 
 "Religion in Italy was overgrown with heresies, and schisms, 
 which often produced the most sanguinary conflicts. Saint 
 Francis founded his order about the beginning of the thir- 
 teenth century ; and preached the faith, according to the 
 doctrines of the church of Rome, in opposition to the sects 
 which the Italian chronicles of that age call Valdesi, Albigesi,
 
 Dante. %% 
 
 Cattari, and Paterini, but more commonly by the latter name. 
 These four sects were all in the main Manicheans. At the 
 same time, St. Dominick arrived from Spain, carrying fire and 
 sword wherever his opinions were disputed. It was he who founded 
 the Inquisition ; and was himself the first niagisier sacripalati, an 
 office always held at Rome, even in our own time, by a Dominician, 
 who examines new books, and decides upon their publication. 
 Before the institution of those two orders, the monks were almost 
 all of the different rules of St. Benedict, reformed by St. Bernard 
 and other abbots. But, being occupied in tilling the land, or in 
 perusing manuscripts of ancient authors, in fine, never going be- 
 yond their convents, unless to become the ministers of kingdoms, 
 where they sometimes exercised kingly power, their wealth, edu- 
 cation, and even pride, rendered them unfit for the business of 
 running from place to place, and employing hypocrisy, impudence, 
 and cruelty, in the service of the Popes. St. Bernard, by his 
 eloquence and rare talents, exercised great influence over kings 
 and pontiffs. He succeeded in firing Europe to undertake the 
 crusade ; but, to give durability to the opinions he produced, there 
 was still wanting the pertinacity and roguery of the mendicant 
 friars, to exhibit to the people spectacles of humility and privation, 
 and o{ auto-da-fe. They had their convents in towns, and spread 
 themselves over the country : whilst the Benedictines were living 
 like the great feudal lords in their castles." 
 
 The Similes which Dante has conjured up by his genius through- 
 out his work, though nearly always obvious to the reader are 
 sublime in conception. We have a fine example in the first canto 
 of the Inferno. 
 
 " E come quci che con lena affa^mata, 
 Uscito fuor ad pclago alia riva. 
 Si volge all' acqjia perii^liosa^ e guata,^' 
 
 which Cary has translated. 
 
 "And as a man with difTicult short hrcath 
 Furcspent with tciilinj:, "scaped from sea to shore 
 Turns to the perilous wide waste, anil stands 
 At gaze " 
 
 M
 
 90 Dante. 
 
 In this simile we are left at once in full possession of the image 
 conjured up by the poet. The words "fuor del pelago," present 
 to us the man, having despaired of escape, and at the very last 
 gasp vomited up by the ocean ; and the concluding verse places 
 him in that sort of stupor which is felt upon passing at once to 
 safety from despair, without any intervention of hope. He looks 
 back upon perdition with a stare, unconcious how he had escaped 
 it. The word "guata" which ends the stanza and the sentence, 
 presents all this to the imagination as if by magic. 
 
 Dante condenses all his thoughts and feelings in the facts he 
 relates ; he does not stop to fill up the design with minute touches, 
 but passes hastily on in his subject without pausing to heighten the 
 effect. "A single word," Macauley says, "flung in apparently with- 
 out design often gives its whole light and character to the picture." 
 A passage in the third canto of the Purgatoria gives a delightful 
 example of this in the passage where the poet gazes with fixed 
 eyes upon the shades as they move over the mountain. One 
 stands still and addresses him. 
 
 "^ un di loro incomincio: chhmqus 
 Tic Sif,' cosi andando volgi V viso, 
 Pon jnente, se di la vii vedesti tmque, 
 lo mi vohi ver ltd, e giiardail fiso, 
 
 Bionda era. e bdlo, e di gentile aspeito ; 
 Ma ttin decigli zt7i colpo avea diviso 
 Quando vii ftii umilmenie disdetto 
 D'aveflo vists viai, el disse : Or vedi ; 
 E viostrommi wta piaga a sommo il petto 
 Poi sorridendo disse : lo son Manfredi.''* 
 
 Then of thein one began " Wbo'er tliou art 
 Who jouriieyest thus this wa,", tiiy visage turn. 
 'I'hink if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen." 
 I towards him turn'd, and with flx'd eyes beheld, 
 Comely and fair and gentle of aspect. 
 He seem'd : but on one brow a gash was mark'd ; 
 When humbly I disclaitn'd to have beheld 
 Him ever. ''Now behold," lie said ; and show'd, 
 High on his breast, a wound ; then smiling, spalie, 
 "I am Manfredi." 
 
 Manfredi was the most powerful prince in Italy ; and fell on the 
 
 field of battle in the flower of his age. It is easy to imagine what
 
 X>(inie. 91 
 
 Dante felt at the sight of this ill-fated and youthful hero. We look 
 to find a eulogy upon him ; but the poet in his own person speaks 
 not of Manfredi. It is by the single word " sorridendo," that the 
 reader is moved to admiration and pity. Dante employs but that 
 one word to express the magnanimity of a hero smiling, whilst 
 he shows the wound that arrested him in his career of glory ; and 
 discovering in that smile, his contempt of the vindictive fury of his 
 enemies. 
 
 Dante greatly improved the lyric poetry of Italy, though he was 
 not the inventor of it. He mentions himself in his prose works, 
 that "lyric composition had been introduced above a century be- 
 fore by Sicilian poets, into Italy ;" from which time it was gradually 
 cultivated down to Guido Cavalcanti, the finest before Dante. The 
 verses which celebrate Beatrice are enchanting. It is out of my 
 powers to comment farther on tliis great peel's works : unwearied 
 readinj, and a profound knowledge of the Italian language and 
 of the rise and progress of Italian civilization, are requisite for 
 illustrating the genius and the works of Dante. 
 
 It is a peculiar trait in the character of the earlier poets that they 
 continually reveal to us in their writings their inmost feelings and 
 dispositions of their souls. They say as it were to the reader : 
 
 Tibi mine, hortant Cama'na, 
 Exectitienda daintis pracordia. 
 
 And this trait is particularly seen in many passages of Dante's 
 works. We may see his pride and haughtiness of demeanour for 
 we read he was naturally proud in the following passage in which 
 he compares himself to his contemporaries and exhibits his feel- 
 ings and superiority. 
 
 Sot to I'ushergo del scntirsi piiro. 
 
 "Conscience makes me firm ; 
 The l)oon eompanion, 'uho her strong breastplate 
 Biukli's on him t/iat jlrL<: no qnilt 7uithin 
 And bids liini on, and fear not.'' 
 
 Yet earlier on we find this pride melt again into the softest de- 
 ference and docility, when he meets witii those who have claims
 
 92 Dante, 
 
 upon his gratitude and respect. In conversing with the shade of 
 Brunetti Latini, who was damned for a shameful crime, he still 
 attends his master with his head bent down : 
 
 II capo chino 
 Tenea, corn' aom die riverente Tada 
 
 Held my head 
 Bent down as one who walks in reverent guise. 
 
 The nobleness of Dante's character, is beautifully shown, and 
 sweetly expressed, in the passage of his entrance into Purgatory, 
 where he meets his friend Casella, a celebrated musician, who had 
 died a short time before, and whom he deeply lamented. 
 
 "Then one I saw, darting before the rest 
 With such fond ardour to embrace me, I 
 To do the like was moved : O shadows vain, 
 Except in outward semblance! "Thrice mj hands 
 I clasped behind it ; they as oft returned 
 Empty into my breast again : Surprise 
 I need must think, was painted in my looks, 
 For that the shndow smiled and backward drew. 
 To follow it I hastened, but with voice 
 Of sweetness it enjoined me to desist : 
 Then who it was I knew, and pray'd of it 
 To talk with me it would a little pause, 
 It answered, ''Thee as in my mortal frame 
 I loved, so loosed from it I love thee still, 
 iind therefore pause; but why walkest thou here. " 
 
 Like Shakespeare, Dante must have desired fame. There is 
 a curious passage in the Purgatorio, where describing the transi- 
 tory nature of literary fame. and the variableness of human opinion, 
 the poet alludes with confidence to his future greatness. Of two 
 Authors of the name of Guido, one having eclipsed the other, the 
 poet writes : 
 
 " Cose ha tolto I'mo all'altro Guido. 
 Lp gloina della lingua; e forse e nato, 
 Chi I'mo e Taltro caccera di nodo." 
 
 Dante is perhaps the poet most spoken of, and least read. He 
 has marvellously exhibited his feelings in his works, which so 
 nearly correspond with his life, and the events of the age in which 
 he lived, that we, as it were, have before us a narrative account
 
 Chaucer. S3 
 
 of his life and actions. We have revealed to us, his inmost feelings, 
 but in order to obtain just views of them, his works must be read 
 through and through. And yet the poet seems to be living away 
 from us and our world, and we feel unable to find any correspon- 
 dence in our emotions and his. Poggius relates of Dante, that 
 "he indulged his meditations more strongly than any man he 
 knew ; whenever he read he was only alive to what was passing 
 in his mind ; to all human concerns, he was as if they had not 
 been." The following anecdote, illustrative of the poet's medita- 
 tive disposition, is related amongst D'Israeli's Literary Curiosities, 
 "Dante went one day to a great public procession ; he entered the 
 shop of a bookseller, to be a spectator of the passing show. He 
 found a book which greatly interested him ; he devoured it in si- 
 lence, and plunged into an abyss of thought. On his return, he 
 declared that he had neither seen nor heard the slightest occurrence 
 of the public exhibition which passed before him." This is the 
 enthusiasm which we can see in reading this great poet's works, 
 and which seemed to have rendered every thing which surrounded 
 him as if an immense interval separated him from the scenes. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 Chaucer. The most illustrious ornament of the reign of 
 Edward III. and of his successor Richard 11., was Chaucer; a poet 
 with whom the history of our poetry is by many supposed to have 
 commenced.* Johnson has pronounced him to be '"the first Eng- 
 lish versifier who wrote poetically." Chaucer it is said, studied at 
 Oxford, and that he completed his studies in the Inns of Court, and 
 saw the reigns of Edward 111., Richard II and the beginning of that 
 of Henry IV., being born in ]3L'8,and dying in 1400, aged 72, years. 
 He was much in favour with Edward III., from whom he received 
 many tokens of regard. During this reign Chaucer went to France, 
 where he was entrusted with a mission of delicacy and importance. 
 
 Wartoii'i History of Kng. Poetry,
 
 94 Chaucer. 
 
 While there he obtained a great reputation by his literary exercises, 
 and deeply impressed on his mind, the wit, the beauties, and 
 elegancies of that highly-polished tongue. In consequence of 
 this, we learn that he afterwards made translations from foreign 
 languageSjby which his knowledge of them became correct and as 
 he transfused their beauties, he added to the polish of his own 
 vernacular idiom. * He certainly entertained a mean opinion 
 of his native language, in which he was likely to be more confirmed 
 by his skill in French, and still more in Italian ; and from this 
 circumstance it is doubted whether he deemed himself sufficiently 
 qualified to undertake an original composition before his sixtieth 
 year. From French or Latin originals, Chaucer imitated or trans- 
 lated his Knights Tale, ?LT\6.tht Ro!iia7int o/the Fose. 
 
 Chaucer's poetry is essentially dramatic and picturesque he 
 only describes external objects as connected with character as 
 the symbols of internal passions. This applies in the same way 
 to his description of natural scenery he describes inanimate ob- 
 jects from the effect which they have on the mind of the spectator 
 and as they have a reference to the interest of the story. 
 
 Richard II. reign was not so favourable to the fortunes of Chau- 
 cer ; but had he lived to see Richard IV, the son of his constant 
 benefactor, firmly seated on the throne, he would probably have 
 experienced the richest returns of royal favour. Leland says of 
 Chaucer that "he was an acute dialectician, an orator full of 
 sweetness, a pleasant poet, a deep philosopher, an ingenious 
 mathematician, and a holy divine." And yet Chaucer is read, not 
 zs z poet who delights by the richness of his imagery, or the harmony 
 of his numbers but as a 'writer, who has portrayed with truth, 
 the manners, customs and habits of the age in which he lived. 
 We are told that his sole design in writing was to improve his 
 native tongue, and attempt something for his country. Chaucer 
 may take the first rank among our English poets, if we consider 
 his improved versification the occasional sprinklings of philoso- 
 phy, and the beauty of many of his passages; but we are not 
 indebted to him, as Italy was to her Dante, or France to her 
 
 * Berington's Literary History.
 
 Chaucer. 95 
 
 Boccaccio. He improved the mechanism and harmony of verse ; 
 he augmented and enriched the English vocabulary with foreign 
 words, and was the author of some beautiful lines; but did he excite 
 that literary ardour amongst the great and the opulent like Dante 
 or Petrarca? Did he search out the works of classical antiquity, 
 or make the literature of Greece and Rome the object of his study 
 and attention ? A new era of poetry did not commence with him ; 
 he only left behind him a succession of scholars, who, having im- 
 bibed his spirit, pursued his steps and soon accomplished the object 
 of their wishes. We cannot confer the highest praise upon 
 Chaucer: without the impulse which he received from Petrarca and 
 Boccaccio it is probable that he would ever have remained a com- 
 mon man. 
 
 One of the finest parts of Chaucer is in the beginning of the 
 Flower and the Leaf where he describes the delight of that young 
 beauty shrouded in her bowery and listening in the morning of the 
 year to the singing of the nightingale, while her joy rises with the 
 rising song, and gushes out afresh at every pause, and is borne 
 along with the full tide of pleasure, and still increases and repeats 
 and prolongs itself and knows no end. The coolness of the arbour 
 its retirement tlie early time of the day the sudden starting 
 up of the birds in the neighbouring bushes the eager delight with 
 which they devour and rend the opening buds and flowers, are 
 expressed with a truth of feeling which makes the whole seem 
 like the recollection of an actual scene. Drydcn has thus trans- 
 lated it : 
 
 "When Chanticleer the second watch had sung, 
 Scorning tlie scoi-nor slreji, from bed I sprung ; 
 And (hessing, by the moon, in loose array, 
 Piiss'd out in open air, preventing day, 
 And sought a goodly grove, as fancy led my way. 
 Of oaks unshorn a vi'iierahlc wood : 
 Fresh was the grass lioncalh, aiid i>v'ry tree, 
 At distance i)lantcti in a due dcgrco, 
 Their lirancliing arms in air with ciiual space 
 Strctch'd to their neighbours with a lung embrace: 
 And the new leaves on cv'ry bnuiih were seen 
 Some ruddy colour'd, some of lighter green.
 
 96 Chaucer. 
 
 The painted birds, companions of the spring, 
 Hopping from spray to spray, were heard to sing. 
 Both eyes and ears receiv'd a liise delight, 
 Enchanting music, and a charming sight. 
 On Philomel I fixed my whole desire ; 
 And listen'd for the queen of all the choir; 
 Fain would I hear her heav'nly voice to sing ; 
 And wanted yet an omen to the spring. 
 ****** 
 
 Thus as I mus'd, I cast aside my eye, 
 And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh. 
 The spreading branches made a goodly show, 
 And full of op'ning blooms was every bough : 
 A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride 
 Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side, 
 Still pecking as she pass'd : and still she drew 
 The sweets from ev'ry flow'r, and suck'd the dew; 
 Suffic'd at length, she warbled in her throat. 
 And tun'd her voice to many a merry note. 
 But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear. 
 Yet such as sooth'd my soul and pleas'd my ear ; 
 
 Her short performance was no sooner tried, 
 When she I sought, the nightingale, replied : 
 So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung. 
 That the grove echo'd, and the valleys rung: 
 And so I ravish'd with her heav'nly note, 
 1 stood entranc'd, and had no room for thought. 
 But all o'erpower'd with ecstacy of bliss. 
 Was in a pleasing dream of paradise ; 
 At length I wak'd, and looking round the bow'r, 
 Search d ev'ry tree, and pried on ev'ry flow'r. 
 If any where by chance I might espy 
 The rural poet of the melody : 
 For still me thought she sung not far away : 
 At last I found her on a laurel spray. 
 Close by my side she sat, and fair in sight. 
 Full in a line, against her opposite ; 
 Where stood with eglantine the laurel twin'd ; 
 And both their native sweets were well conjoin'd." 
 
 The allegorical strangeness of this poem is exceedingly beautiful, 
 where it contains mysterious allusions to the virtues or beauties of 
 the vegetable world and of the flowers and plants. A great deal 
 of morality is couched under the symbols which Chaucer employs 
 in this poem. The Flower denotes indolence and pleasure ; the 
 Leaf signifies perseverence and virtue. Some of the knights and 
 ladies do obeisance to the leaf, and some to the flower. And there
 
 Chaucen Q7 
 
 are many other symbols, clothed in beautiful rural descriptions. 
 These fancies seem to have taken their rise from the F/orai Games 
 instituted in France in the year 1324, which filled the French 
 poetry with images of this sort. They were founded by Clem- 
 entina Isaure, Countess of Thoulouse, and annually celebrated 
 in the month of May. She published an edict which assem- 
 bled all the poets of France in artificial arbours dressed 
 with flowers : and he that produced the best poem, was rewarded 
 with a violet of gold. There were likewise inferior prizes of flowers 
 made in silver. This account agrees exactly with Chaucer's 
 Flower and Leaf. We see the poet placed in a delicious arbour, 
 interwoven with eglantine. 
 
 "Twas bench'd with turf, and goodly to be seen, 
 The thick young grass arose in fresher green : 
 The mouiul was newly made, no sight could pass 
 Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass; 
 The well-united sods so closely lay ; 
 And all around the shades defended it from day, 
 For sycamores with eglantine were spread, 
 A hedge about the sides, a cov'ring overhead. 
 And so the fragrant brier was wove between. 
 The sycamore and flow'rs were mix'd with green, 
 That nature seem'd to vary the dcligiit, 
 And satisfied at once the smell and sight. " 
 
 Imaginary troops of knights and ladies advance: some of the 
 
 ladies are crowned with flowers, and others with chaplets of aotius 
 
 cast us, and these are respectively subject to a Lady of the Floiuer, 
 
 and a Lady of t lie Leaf. 
 
 " Thus while I sat intent to see and licar, 
 
 And drew perfumes of more tlian vital air, 
 
 All suddenly I heard th'approaching sound 
 
 Of vocal music on th'enchantcd ground : 
 
 A host of saints it secmM, so full the choir ; 
 
 As if the bless'd above did all conspire 
 
 To join their voices, and neglect the lyre. 
 
 At length there issu'd from the strove behind 
 
 A fair assembly "f the female kind : 
 
 A train lo>s fail', as ancient fithers tell, 
 
 Seduc'd the sons of heaven to rebel. 
 
 I pass their firm, anil ev'ry charming grace. 
 
 Loss than an angel would their worth debase: 
 
 But their attire, like liv'ries of a kind 
 
 All rich and rare, is fresh within my mind,'" 
 
 N
 
 98 Chancer. 
 
 Many of the knights are distinguished in much the same man- 
 ner : but others are crowned with leaves of oak, and of other trees: 
 others carrying branches of oak, laurel, hawthorne and wood-bine. 
 Besides this profusion of vernal ornaments, the whole procession 
 glitters with gold, pearls, rubies, and other costly decorations. 
 
 "The ladies dress'd in rich symars were seen, 
 Of florence satin, flow'r'd with white and green, 
 And for a shade betwixt, the gloomy gridelin. 
 The border of their petticoats below 
 Where guarded thick with rubies on a row; 
 And ev'ry damsel wore upon her head 
 Of flow'rs a garland blended white and red. 
 Attir'd in mantles all the knights were seen, 
 That gratified the view with cheerful green : 
 The chaplots of their ladies' colours were, 
 Compos'd of white and red, to shade their shining hair." 
 
 They are preceded by minstrels clothed in green, and crowned 
 with flowers. 
 
 " Before the merry troop the minstrels play'd ; 
 All in their master's liv'ries were array 'd. 
 And clad in green, and on their temples woi-e 
 Their chaplets white and red their ladies bore. 
 Their instruments were various in their kind, 
 Some for the bow, and some for breathing wind : 
 The psalt'ry, pipe, and hautboy's noisy band, 
 And the softlute trembling beneath the touching hand." 
 
 One of the ladies then sings a bargaret or pastoral in praise of the 
 
 daisy. 
 
 "A tuft of daisies on a flow'ry lay 
 They saw, and thitherward they bent their way ; 
 To this both knights and dames their homage made, 
 And due obeisance to the daisy paid. 
 And then the band of flutes began to play. 
 To which a lady sung a virelay : 
 And still at ev'ry close she would repeat 
 The burden of the song. The daisy is so sweet. 
 The daisy is so sweet, when she begun, 
 The troop of knight, and dames continu'd on. 
 The concert and the voice so charm'd my ear, 
 And sooth'd my soul, that it was hcav'n to hear." 
 
 In the meantime a nightingale, seated in a laurel-tree, whose 
 shades would cover an hundred persons, sings the whole service, 
 "longing to May."
 
 Chaucer. 99 
 
 " Amid the plain a spreading laurel stood, 
 The grace and ornament of all the wood : 
 That pleasing shade they sought, a soft retreat 
 From sudden April showers, a shelter from the heat; 
 Her leafy arras with such extent were spread, 
 So near the clouds was her aspiring head. 
 That hosts of birds, that wing the liquid air, 
 Perch'd in the boughs, had nightly lodging there : 
 And flocks of sheep beneath the shade from far 
 Might hear the rattling hail, and wintry war; 
 From heav'n's inclemency here found retreat, 
 Enjoy'd the cool, and shunn'd the scorching heat : 
 A hundred knights might here at ease abide ; 
 And eT'ry knight a lady by his side ; 
 The trunk itself such odours did bequeath. 
 That a Moluccan breeze to these was common breath." 
 
 Some of the knights and ladies do obeisance to the leaf, and 
 some to the flower of the daisy. Others are represented as wor- 
 shipping a bed of flowers. The lady of the leaf invites the lady 
 of the flower to a banquet. 
 
 " The lady of the leaf ordain'd a feast, 
 And made the lady of the flow'r her guest : 
 When lo, a bow'r ascended on the plain, 
 With sudden scats ordain'd, and largf^ for either train. 
 This bow'r was near my pleasant ai'bour placd, 
 That I could hear and see wliatever pass'il ; 
 The ladies sat with each a kin'ght between, 
 Distinguisli'd by their colours, white and green; 
 The vanquish'd party with the victors join'd, 
 Nor wanted sweet discourse, the banquet of the mind. 
 Meantime the minstrels play'd on either side, 
 A'^ain oftlieir art, and for the masl'ry vied ; 
 The sweet contention lasted for an hour. 
 And reach'd my secret arbour from the bow'r." 
 
 Among those who are crowned with the leaf, are the knights of 
 King Arthur's table, and Charlemagne's Twelve Peers : together 
 with the knights of the order of the Garter, now just established 
 by Edward III. 
 
 Chaucer's works abound in allegories, and it is remarkable that 
 the early poets of Greece and Rome were fond of these creations. 
 Warton gives an admirable analysis of this fact, lie says, "Homer 
 has given us Strife, Contention, Fear, Terror, Tumults, Desire, 
 Persuasion and Benevolence. We have in Hcsiod. Darkmss, and
 
 100 Chaucer, 
 
 many others, if the Shield of Hercules be of his hand. Comus oc- 
 curs in the Agamemnon of Eschylus ; and in the Prometheus of 
 the same poet, Strength and Force are two persons in the drama, 
 and perform the capital parts. The fragments of Ennius indicate 
 throughout his poetry, Sorrow (Omnibus endo locis ingens ap- 
 paret imago Tristitias. Lucretius has drawn the great and terrible 
 figure of Superstition ( ' Que caput e cceli regionibus ostendebat') 
 He also mentions in a beautiful procession of the Seasons, Calo 
 Aridus,Hyems diXid Algus. And introduces Medicitte, 'ranitcnng 
 with silent fear ' in the midst of the deadly pestilence at Athens. 
 Euripides gives the person of Death in his Alcestis, from which 
 Milton took his noble but romantic allegory of Sifi atid Death." 
 Though Chaucer is but an imitator of these immortal poets, 
 the allegories he has employed are grand in the extreme. As 
 knowledge and learning increased, poetry began to deal less in 
 imagination ; and these fantastic beings gave way to real manners 
 and lively characters. 
 
 Chaucer appears to have been a great reader, and his learning is 
 sometimes mistaken for genius. We are surprised to find in a 
 poet of such antiquity numbers so nervous and flowing. The 
 Knighfs Tale abounds in unexpected and striking incidents, 
 opening in sublime description, and interesting by pathetic situa- 
 tions. There is a beautiful description of the morning which 
 vies both in sentiment and expression with the most finished 
 modern poetical landscapes, and finely displays the poet's talent 
 in delineating the beauties of nature. 
 
 "The.merry lark, messenger of the day, 
 Saluteth in her song the morrow gray ; 
 The firy Phoebus riseth up so bright, 
 That all the horison laugheth at the sight. 
 And with his streams clrieth in the greves f 
 The silver drops left hanging in the leaves. 
 
 Pathetic description is also one of Chaucer's peculiar excellencies. 
 Nothing can be more ingeniously contrived than the occasion on 
 which the Canterbury Talcs are supposed to be recited. A com- 
 pany of pilgrims on their journey to visit the shrine of Thomas a 
 
 t Groves.
 
 The Elizabethan Era of Poetry. 101 
 
 Beckett at Canterbury lodge at the Taborde-inn at Southvvark. 
 Although strangers to each other, they are assembled in one room 
 at supper, as was then the custom ; and agree, not only to travel 
 together the next morning, but to relieve the fatigue of the 
 journey by each telHng a story. This is without doubt, an imitation 
 of the Decameron of Boccaccio. The pathos of this poem which is 
 exquisite, consists in the invention of incidents and the contrivance 
 of the story. In the Miller's Tale, and also in other parts of 
 Chaucer's writings, the levity of the story frequently amounts to 
 indelicacy. But this obscurity of Chaucer's may be in a great 
 measure imputed to his age. "We are apt" says Warton, "to 
 form romantic and exaggerated notions about the moral innocence 
 of our ancestors. Ages of ignorance and simplicity are thought to 
 be ages of purity. The direct contrary, I believe, is the case. Rude 
 periods have that grossness of manners which is not less friendly 
 to virtue than luxury itself. In the middle ages, not only the 
 most flagrant violations of modesty were frequently practised and 
 permitted, but the most infamous vices. Men are less ashamed 
 as they are less polished. Great refinement multiplies criminal 
 pleasures, but at the same time prevents the actual commission of 
 many enormities ; at least it preserves public decency, and sap- 
 presses public licentiousness."'* In Chaucer's characters we get an 
 exact picture of the ancient manners, of the customs and diversions 
 of our ancestors, represented with truth and spirit, as no contem- 
 porary nation has transmitted to posterity. We see in Chaucer 
 the lustre and dignity of a true poet, in an age which compelled 
 him to struggle with a barbarous language, and a natural want of 
 taste ; and when, to write verses at all was regarded as a singular 
 qualification. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE F.LIZAIiETHAN ERA OF I'OETRY. 
 
 With Chaucer in reality commenced the great era of English 
 poetry, but there followed a relapse, caused by almost a century 
 
 ' W.-irton's History of Eiig. Poetry.
 
 102 The Elizabethan Era of Poetry. 
 
 of conspiracies, proscriptions and bloodshed. This chasm ex- 
 tended to Spenser, in the reign of Elizabeth. Certainly, a feeble 
 attempt was made in the reign of Henry VIII. but Campbell 
 says, " highest genius seems to have come forth, but half assured 
 that her day of emancipation was at hand." Poetry was not 
 firmly established until towards the end of the sixteenth century. 
 Many minor poets intervened, but of little note, if we except Sir 
 Thomas Moore, who sprung up towards the end of the fifteenth 
 century, Warton says, "I consider Chaucer as a genial day in an 
 English spring. A brilliant sun enlivens the face of nature with an 
 unusual lustre; the sudden appearance of cloudless skies, and the 
 unexpected warmth of a tepid atmosphere, after the gloom and in- 
 clemencies of a tedious winter, fill our hearts with the visionary 
 prospect of a speedy summer : and we fondly anticipate a long 
 continuance of gentle gales and vernal serenity. But winter returns 
 with redoubled horrors : the clouds condense more formidably than 
 before : and those tender buds, and early blossoms, which were 
 called forth by the transient gleam of a temporary sunshine, are 
 nipped by frosts, and torn by tempests. " This simile represents 
 the period that succeeded Chaucer, in which most of the poets 
 seemed rather to have relapsed into barbarism. 
 
 Lydgate attained some eminence in the reign of Henry VI. He 
 possessed a lively genius and numerous accomplishments, he was 
 not only a poet and a rhetorician, but a geometrician and astrono- 
 mer and a theologist. Warton says of him, " I am of opinion that 
 Lydgate made considerable additions to the amplications of our 
 language, in which Chaucer, Gower, and Occleve led the way: and 
 that he is the first of our writers whose style is clothed with that 
 perspicuity in which the English phraseology appears at this day 
 to an English reader." Two other poets also appeared in this 
 reign, Hugh Campeden and Thomas Chester, but they obtained no 
 great celebrity. 
 
 The only poets of Edward the Fourth's reign were Harding, 
 John Norton, and John Ripley, of whom Warton gives a detailed 
 account in his History of English poetry.
 
 The Elizabethan Era of Poetry. l03 
 
 The subsequent reign of Richard III., Edward V. and Henry VII. 
 abounded in obscure versifiers, the only one of which who deserved 
 the name of a poet, being Stephen Hawes. He flourished about 
 the close of the fifteenth century, and was patronised by Henry VII, 
 
 We hear of John Skelton as having lived during the reign of 
 Henry VIII. and feel he deserves notice amongst all others of this 
 era, as having lived at a time when literature and poetry was at its 
 worst stage. 
 
 Little or nothing of a poetical description has descended to us 
 from the reigns of Edward II. and Mary. The latter was too 
 unpropitious and turbulent, for the exercise of genius ; a spiritual 
 warfare polluted every part of England with murders more atrocious 
 than the slaughters of the most bloody civil contest on record. 
 
 But the splendid era of our literature, commonly called the 
 
 Elizabethan Period, may be said to have begun with Spenser. 
 
 From this great poet we heard the first notes of: 
 
 "Those melodious bursts that fill 
 The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
 With souiuis that echo still." 
 
 Spenser is the foremost chronology of those great spirits who 
 
 towards the end of the sixteenth century, lifted up their immortal 
 
 voices, and spoke words to be heard and heeded for all time. 
 
 This period produced us Shakspeare, Spenser, Sidney, Bacon, 
 
 Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, men who by their works have 
 
 become ornaments of human nature and patterns to all mankind. 
 
 To these may be added others, not less learned and great, but 
 
 whose names have sunk into "mere oblivion," and whose only 
 
 record may be found in their works. Webster, Decker, Marston, 
 
 Marlowe, Chapman, Heywood, Middlcton, and Rowley, though 
 
 the friends and fellow labourers of Shakspeare are little noticed. 
 
 As Hazlitt finely observes. " They went out one by one unnoticed, 
 
 like evening lights. " The genious of Great Britain never shone 
 
 out greater or briglicr than at this period. There is a natural 
 
 love awd fondness for whatever was done in this age ; wclook upon 
 
 the reign of Queen Elizabeth, as the golden age ; and the great
 
 l04 The Elizabethan Era of Poetry. 
 
 men who lived in it, as our chief heroes of virtue; and greatest 
 examples of wisdom, courage, integrity and learning. There 
 never was anywhere, anything like the sixty or seventy years 
 that elapsed from the middle of Elizabeth's reign to the period 
 of the Restoration. In point of real force and originality of 
 genius, neither the age of Pericles, nor the age of Augustus, 
 nor the times of Leo X., nor of Louis the XIV., can come at all 
 into comparison. No writers of tragedy and dramatic poetry of 
 any age, can be compared to the great men of the age of Shaks- 
 peare, and immediately after. Hazlitt says, "They are a mighty 
 phalanx of kindred spirits closing him round, moving in the same 
 orbit, impelled by the sane causes in their whirhng and eccentric 
 career. They had the same faults and the same excellencies ; 
 the same strength and depth of richness; the same truth of char- 
 acter, passion, imagination, thought, and language, thrown, heaped, 
 massed together, without careful polishing or exact method, but 
 poured out in unconcerned profusion from the lap of Nature and 
 Genius in boundless and unrivalled magnificence. The sweetness 
 of Decker, the thought of IVIarston, the gravity of Chapman, the 
 grace of Fletcher and his young-eyed wit, Jonson's learned rock, 
 the flowing vein of Middleton, Heywood's ease, the pathos of 
 Webster, and Marlowe's deep designs, add a double lustre to the 
 sweetness, thought, gravity, grace, wit, artless nature, copiousness, 
 ease, and sublime conceptions of Shakspeare's Muse. Our admir- 
 ation of them, does not lessen our relish for him. They are the 
 true scale by which we ascend to the true knowledge and love of 
 him." 
 
 One of the great sources of the poetr}' of this period, was the 
 numerous translations of Italian tales into English. They gave 
 rise to innumerable plays and poems, which would not otherwise 
 have existed ; and turned the thoughts of our writers to new inven- 
 tions of the same kind. It was from these that our dramatic poets 
 borrowed the ideas of a legitimate plot. In proportion as knowledge 
 increased, genius had wanted subjects and materials. These pieces 
 usurped the places of legends and chronicles. And although the
 
 The Elizabethan Era of Poetry 105 
 
 eld historical songs of the minstrels contained much bold adven- 
 ture, heroic enterprise, and strong touches of rude delineation, 
 yet they failed in the multiplication of disposition of circumstances, 
 and in that description of characters and events approaching nearer 
 to truth and reality, which were demanded by a more discerning 
 and curious age.* 
 
 But the Reformation had not yet destroyed eveiy delusion and 
 superstition. " Every goblin of ignorance did not vanish at the 
 first glimmerings of the morning of science. Reason suffered a 
 few demons still to linger, which she chose to retain in her service 
 under the guidance of poetry." The Shakespeare of a more 
 instructed and polished age would not have given us a ma- 
 gician darkening the sun at noon, the sabbath of the witches, 
 and the cauldron of incantation. But the productions of this age 
 were not too violent for common sense : the point had been reached, 
 when the national credulity became chastened by reason. In this 
 age, every man indulged his own capriciouness of invention. There 
 was an insatiable desire of the mind to beget its own image, and 
 to construct out of itself. The poet's appeal was chiefly to his own 
 voluntary feeling, his own immediate and peculiar mode of concep- 
 tion. Sentiments and images were not absolutely determined by 
 the canons of composition. And this freedom of thought was 
 often expressed in an undisguised frankness of diction, which 
 afterwards degenerated into dissonance and asperity. Warton, 
 in speaking of this circumstance, says of Shakespeare, "we behold 
 him breaking the barriers of imaginary method. In the same 
 scene he descends from the meridian of the noblest tragic sub- 
 limity, to puns and quibbles, to tlie meanest merriments of a 
 plebeian farce. In the midst of his dignity, he resembles his own 
 Richard II, the i'^'/^//;/i,'"X7'//^'", who sometimes discarding the state 
 of a monarch, 
 
 " Mingled his royalty witli carping fools,'" 
 
 ILiny iv. Act Hi. Scciw it. 
 
 He seems not to have seen any impropriety, in tlie most abrupt 
 transitions, from dukes to buffoons, from senators to sailors, from 
 
 Warton's History of Va\;,. Poetry. 
 
 o
 
 106 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 counsellors to constables, and from kings to clowns," 
 
 At this period all the materials which had been accumulating 
 for a long period of time, were brought together and polished and 
 arranged for ordinary use and instruction ; and as Hazlitt says 
 of this era, " every breath that blew, every wave that rolled to 
 our shores, brought with it some accessions to our knowledge 
 which was engrafted on the national genius ; " in a word there 
 was a natural genius in this age, as there had never been be- 
 fore, and this was fed by the circumstances of the times that 
 preceded it. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE EARLY ELIZABETHAN POETS. 
 
 Sackville, The date of this poet is placed under the year 
 1630. His eminent accomplishments and abilities having acquired 
 the confidence and esteem of Queen Elizabeth, the poet was soon 
 lost in the statesman, and negociations and embassies extinguished 
 the milder ambitions of the ingenious Muse. His principal work 
 is a poem entitled the /^/^f/'/(?;/. In the plan of it, all the illus- 
 trious but unfortunate characters of English history, from the 
 conquest to the end of the fourteenth century, pass in review 
 before the poet, who descends like Dante into the infernal regions, 
 and is conducted by Sor7-ow. The shadowy inhabitants of Hell, 
 are conceived by the poet with the vigour ofa creative imagination, 
 and described with great force of expression and are delineated 
 with that fulness of proportion, that invention of picturesque 
 attributes, distinctness, animation, and amplitude of which Spen- 
 ser is commonly supposed to have given the first specimens in 
 our language, and which are characteristic of his poetry. We 
 may venture to pronounce that Spenser, at least, caught his 
 manner of designing allegorical personages from this model,
 
 Sackville. 107 
 
 which so greatly enlarged the former narrow bounds of our ideal 
 imagery. 
 
 Sackville has strongly imitated Dante and Virgil in his Induction, 
 but the characters are all his own. What Virgil has suggested, he 
 has only heightened and beautified. The opening verses of this 
 poem rank him equally with our best early writers: in the de- 
 scription of a winter scene in which, while he looks on the altered 
 state of things, the flowers and verdure of summer deformed by 
 the frosts and storms of winter, he is reminded of the uncertain- 
 ties and changes of human life 
 
 "Then looking upwards to the hearen's beams, 
 With night's stars thick powder'd everywhere, 
 Which erst so glistened with the golden streams 
 Tbat cheerful PLioebus spread down from his sphere, 
 Beholding dark, oppressing day so near ; 
 The sudden sight reduced to my mind 
 The sundry changes that in earth we find." 
 
 The Gorbodiic of Sackville is perhaps the first specimen in 
 our language of an heroic tale written in blank verse, divided into 
 acts and scenes, and clothed in all the formalities of a regular 
 tragedy. There are many of the same defects in this tragedy, as 
 may be seen in Shakespeare, although he has cloaked them in the 
 magic of his exquisite poetry the unities of time and place are 
 visibly violated. 
 
 The most beautiful part of it is the fourth Act, in which Prince 
 Porrex is murdered by his brother Viden. King Gorboduc is 
 lamenting the death of his eldest son Ferrex, whom Porrex the 
 younger has slain, when Marcella a court lady enters and relates 
 the miserable end of Porrex. 
 
 Gorboduc. "What cruel destiny 
 
 What froward fato hath sorted us this chance ? 
 
 That ev'n in those whoro wo sliould comfort find, 
 
 Where our delight now in our aged days 
 
 Should rest and 1)p, even tlioro our only grief 
 
 And deepest sorrows to abridge our life, 
 
 Afost pining cares and dendly tboughs do grave. 
 Arostus. Your crnco sliduld now, in tliosf gi-nvc yp;irs of \((urs, 
 
 Have found ore tliis the price of mortal joys. 
 
 How full of change, how brittle our estate.
 
 108 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 How Bhort they be, how fading here in earth, 
 Of nothing sure, save only of the death, 
 To whom both man and all the world doth owe 
 Their end at last ; neither should nature's power 
 In other sort against your heart prevail, 
 Than as the naked hand whose stroke assays 
 The armed breast where force doth light in vain. 
 
 Gorbodnc. Many can yield right grave and sage advice 
 Of patient sprite to others wrapt in woe, 
 And can in speech both rule and conquer kind, 
 Who, if by proof they might feel nature's force. 
 Would show themselves men as they are indeed, 
 Which now will needs be gods: but what doth mean 
 The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? 
 Marcella, enters. 
 
 Marcella. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? 
 Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled ? 
 Are they exiled out of our stony breasts, 
 Never to make return ? is all the world 
 Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty ? 
 If not in women mercy may be found, 
 If not, alas ! within the mother s breast 
 To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; 
 If ruth be banish'd thence, if pity there 
 May have no place, if there no gentle heart 
 Do live and dwell, were should we seek it then? 
 
 Gorbodtic. Madam, alas ! what means your woful tale? 
 
 Marcella. O silly woman I, why to this hour 
 
 Have kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath, 
 That I should live to see this doleful day? 
 Will ever wight believe that such hard heart 
 Could i-est within the cruel mothers breast, 
 Witli her own hand to slay her only son ? 
 But out, alas ! these eyes beheld the same. 
 They saw the dreary siglit, and arebeeome 
 Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. 
 Porrex, alas I is by his mother slain, 
 And with her hand, a woful thing to tell, 
 AYhile slumbering on his careful bed he rests. 
 His heart stab!)'d in \\ith knife is reft of life. 
 
 Gorbodtic. O Eubulus, O draw this sword of ours, 
 
 And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light, 
 O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death. 
 Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech. 
 
 EubuliiF. Patient, your grace, pei-haps he liveth yet. 
 With wound received but not of certain death. 
 Garboduc. O let us then repair unto the place. 
 And see if Porrex live, or thus be slain. 
 
 Marcella. Alas ! lie liveth not, it is too true. 
 
 That with these eyes, of hiin a peerless prince, 
 Son to a king, and in the flower of youth, 
 Even with a twiiik * a senseless stock I saw. 
 
 Twinkling of the Eye.
 
 Sackville. l09 
 
 Arostus, O damned deed ! 
 
 Marcella. But hear his ruthful end. 
 
 The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds, 
 Out of his wretched slumber hastily start, * 
 Whose strength now failing, straight he overthrew. 
 When in the fall his eyes ev'n now unclosed, 
 Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help ; 
 We then, alas ! the ladies which that time 
 Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed. 
 And hearing him oft call the wretched name 
 Of mother, and to cry to her for aid, 
 Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound. 
 Pitying, alas ! (for nought else could we do) 
 His rueful end, ran to the woful bed, 
 Dispoiled straight his breast, and all we might 
 Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand 
 The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast 
 Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, 
 O what a ruthful stedfast eye methought 
 He fix'd upon my face, which to my death 
 Will never part from me, wherewith abraid 
 A deep-fetch'd sigh he gave, and there withal 
 Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; 
 And straight, pale death pressing within his face, 
 The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook. 
 Arostus. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. 
 
 Marcella. O hard and cruel hap that thus assign'd 
 Unto so worthy wigbt so wretcbed eiid : 
 But most hard cruel heart that could consent, 
 To lend the hateful destinies that hand, 
 By which, alas ! so heinous crime was wrought, 
 O queen of adamant, O marble breast, 
 If not the favour of his comely face, 
 If not his princely cheer and countenance, 
 His valiant active arms, his manly breast. 
 If not his fair and seemly personage ; 
 His noble limbs, in such proportion cast. 
 As would have rapt a silly woman's thought ; 
 If this might not have moved the bloody heart, 
 And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon 
 Ev'n to let fall, and kiss'd him in the face, 
 With tears, for rutli to reave such one bv death- 
 Should nature yet cotiseiit to slay lier son? 
 O mother, thou to murder thus tliv child.' 
 Ev'n Jove with justice must, with liglitniiig flames 
 From heaven send down some stranfjo revenge on thee. 
 Ah noble ])rinci', Ikiw oft have I beheld 
 Thee inountefl on thy fierce and trani])ling steed, 
 Shinitig in aruimir brii.'hl beroro tlie tilt, 
 And with thy mistres-i" sleeve tied on thv helm, 
 There charge thy staff, to jilease thy ladv's eve, 
 
 St.irted.
 
 110 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 That bow'd the head -piece of thy friendly foe ! 
 How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace, 
 How oft in arms on foot to break the sword, 
 Which never now these eyes may see again ! 
 
 Arostus. Madam, alas ! in Tain these plaints are shed. 
 Rather with me depart; and help assuage 
 The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king 
 Must needs by nature grow, by death of this 
 His only son, whom he did hold so dear. 
 
 Marcella. What wight is that which saw that I did see, 
 And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears ? 
 Not I, alas ! that heart is not in me ; 
 But let us go, for I am grieved anew, 
 To call to mind the wretched father's woe. 
 
 CHORUS OF AGED MEN. 
 
 When greedy lust in royal seat to reign 
 Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; 
 And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain. 
 Within the ambitious breast are lodged, then 
 Behold how mischief wide herself displays. 
 And with the brother's hand the brother slays. 
 
 When blood thus shed doth stain this heaven's face, 
 Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed. 
 The mighty God ev'n moveth from his place. 
 With wrath to wreak ; then sends he forth with speed 
 The dreadful Furies, daughters of the night. 
 With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire. 
 With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright 
 With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire : 
 These, for revenge of wretched murder done. 
 Doth cause the mother kill her only son. 
 
 Blood asketh blood, and death must death requite. 
 Jove by his just and everlasting doom 
 Justly hath ever so requited it. 
 This times record and times to come. 
 Shall find it true, and as doth present proof 
 Present before our eyes for our behoof. 
 
 O happy wight that suffers not the snare 
 Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood : 
 And happy he that can in time beware 
 By others' harms, and turn it to his good : 
 But woe to him that fearing not to offend. 
 Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end." 
 
 Marston. This poet was almost the next in importance at this 
 period. He seems to have been a bitter satirist against the vices and 
 follies of the men of his age. Throughout all his works, he has not 
 exhibited any tender or soft emotions ; nothing but impatient scorn 
 and indignation. His greatest satire is the " Scourge of Villany"
 
 Marston. Ill 
 
 in which he ridicules the people and things of his time with great 
 vigour of expression. Amongst other things, he appears to have 
 been a violent enemy to the Puritans. 
 
 " But thou, rank Puritan, 
 
 I'll make an ape as good a christian : 
 
 I'll force him chatter, turning up his eye, 
 
 Look sad, so grave, Demure civility 
 
 Shall scorn to say, good brother, sister dear ! 
 
 As for the rest, to snort in belly cheer, 
 
 To bite, to knaw, and boldly intermell 
 
 With holy things in which thou dost excel, 
 
 Unforc'd he'll do. O take compassion 
 
 Even on your souls : make not Religion 
 
 A bawd to lewdness. Civil Socrates, 
 
 Clip not the youth of Alcibiades 
 
 With unchaste arms. Disguised Messaline, 
 
 I'll tear thy mask, and bare thee to the eye." 
 
 Most of Marston's satires are vitiated with impure expressions. 
 "His stream of poetry, if sometimes bright and unpolluted, almost 
 always betrays a muddy bottom. " 
 
 His principal tragedy is Antonio's Revenge and is written with 
 considerable force and pathos. The prologue is full of passionate 
 earnestness, and as Lamb says," for the tragic note of preparation 
 which it sounds, it might have preceded one of those old tales of 
 Thebes, or Pelop's line, which Milton has so highly commended. 
 It is as solemn a preparative as the ' warning voice which he who 
 saw the Apocalypse, heard cry. " 
 
 "The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps 
 
 Tho fluent suiiuner's vein : and dj-izzling sleet 
 
 Chilleth tho wan bleak cheek of tlic numb'd earth. 
 
 Whilst snarling guests nibble tho juicclpss loaves 
 
 From tho naked shuddering branch, and pills the skin 
 
 From off tho soft mid delicate aspects. 
 
 O, now metliinks a sullen trngic scene, 
 
 Would suit the time with pleasing congruence ! 
 
 Ifay we be happy in our weak devoir. 
 
 And all part pleased in most wisli"d content. 
 
 But sweat of IfcrcuL^s can ne'er beget 
 
 So blest an issue. Tlierflore we jiroclaim, 
 
 If any spirit breathes within tliis round. 
 
 Uncapable of weighty passion, 
 
 (As from liis birth being hugijrd in the arms 
 
 And nuzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness) 
 
 Who winks and shuts his apprehension up
 
 112 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 From common Bense of what men were, and are ; 
 
 Who would not know what men must be : let such 
 
 Hurry amain from our black-visaged shows ; 
 
 We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast, 
 
 Nail'd to the earth with grief ; if any heart, 
 
 Pierced through with anguish, pant within this ring ; 
 
 If there be any blood, whose heat is choked 
 
 And stifled with true sense of misery : 
 
 If aught of these strains fill this consort up, 
 
 They arrive most welcome. O, that our power 
 
 Could lacky or keep wing with our desires ; 
 
 That with unused poise of style and sense. 
 
 We might weigh massy in judicious scale ! 
 
 Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes : 
 
 When our scenes falter, or invention halts. 
 
 Your favour will give crutches to our faults." 
 
 The passage in which Maria describes the death of Mellida her 
 
 daughter-in-law, is evry beautiful : 
 
 "Being laid upon her bed she grasp'd my hand, 
 And kissing it spake thus : Thou very poor. 
 Why dost not weep? the jewel of thy brow, 
 The rich adornment that enchased thy breast. 
 Is lost ; thy son, my love, is lost, is dead. 
 And have I lived to see his virtues blurr'd 
 With guiltless blots ? O world, thou art too subtle 
 For honest natures to converse withal: 
 Therefore I'll leave thee : farewell, mart of woe ; 
 I fly to clip my love Antonio. 
 With that, her head sunk down upon her breast ; 
 Her cheek changed earth, her seiises slept in rest: 
 Until my fool, that crept unto the bed, 
 Screech'd out so loud that he brought back her soul, 
 Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope 
 And stared upon hitn : he audacious fool 
 Dared kiss her hand, wish'd her sofi rest, loved bride ; 
 She fumbled out, thanks, good; and so she died." 
 
 In the Malcoiiietit the interest of the plot is perpetually broken, 
 by the continual changes that occur, In the part where the 
 Malcontent describes himself, there is much to admire. 
 "I cannot sleep, my eyes 'ill-neighbouring lids 
 
 Will hold no fellowsliip, O thou pale sober night. 
 
 Thou that in sluggish fennes all sense dost steep ; 
 
 Thou that givost all the world full leave to play, 
 
 Unbend'st at the feebled veins of sweaty labour 
 
 The gaily-slave, that all the toilsome day 
 
 Tugs at the oar against the stubborn wave. 
 
 Straining his rugged veins, snores fast ; 
 
 The stooping scythe-man, that doth barb the field
 
 Marlowe. 113 
 
 Thou makest wink sure ; in ni^hfcall creature sleep, 
 Only tfee Malcontent, that 'gainst his fate 
 Repines and quarrels: alas ! lie's Goodman Tell clock, 
 His sallow jaw-bo. les sink with Wii^^ting moan ; 
 Whilst others' beds are down, his pillow's stone, 
 
 Marlowe. Amongst the dramatic worthies of Shakespeare's 
 time, Marlowe stands certainly first. There is a lust and power in 
 his writings, a glow of the imagination, unhallowed by anything but 
 its own energies. Hazlitt remarks that there is in his writings, "a 
 hunger and thirst after unrighteousness; his thoughts burn 'within 
 him like a furnace, with bickering flames ; or throwing out black 
 smoke and mists, that hide the dawn of genius." Marlowe's wit and 
 sprightliness of conversation had often the unhappy effect of 
 tempting him to sport with sacred subjects: more perhaps from the 
 preposterous ambition of courting the casual applause of profligate 
 and unprejudiced companions, than froin" any systematic disbelief 
 of religion : 
 
 " This study fits a mercenary drudge, 
 Who aims at nothing but eternal trash. 
 Too servile and illiberal for me. 
 When all is done, divinity is best. 
 Jerome'^ bible, Faustus : view it well, 
 Stipcndium pcccati mors est : ha ! Stipcndium ^s^c, 
 The reward of sin is death : that's hard. 
 
 Si pecasse ncgamiis, faUiiniir, et nulla est in nobis Veritas, [in us. 
 
 If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and there is no truth 
 Why then belike we must t^in.andso consequently die 
 Ay, we must die an everlasting death. 
 What doctrine call you this? Che, sera, sera : 
 What will bo shall he. Divinity adieu. 
 These Metiipliysics of Miigiciaus, 
 And necroniatic books, are heavenly. 
 Lines, Circles, Letters, C'haract(M'S : 
 Ay, these are tiioso that l"'auslus most desires. 
 O what a world of profit and doligiit. 
 Of power, of honour, and omnipotence. 
 Is promised to tlie studious arlizan I 
 All things that move liet weeu the quiet poles. 
 vSliaJl be at my command, I'"mi)erors and kings. 
 Are liut obeyed in their several provinces ; 
 But his cloTninion that exceeds in this, 
 Stretclietli as far as doth tlie mind of man : 
 A sound magician is a Demigod. 
 Here tire my brains to gain a deity."
 
 114 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 One of Marlowe's tragedies is The tragical history of the life and 
 death of Doctor Faustiis. It is a proof of the credulous ignorance 
 which still prevailed, and a specimen of the subjects which then 
 were thought not improper for tragedy. The characters of Faustus 
 are finely conceived. He is hurried away, tormented with a desire 
 to enlarge his knowledge to the utmost bounds of nature and art, 
 and to extend his power with his knowledge. He is desirous of 
 solving the most subtle speculations of abstract reason : and for 
 this purpose leagues himself with demoniacal power. 
 
 ' Till swoln with cunning and a self-conceit, 
 His waxen wings did mount above bis reach, 
 And melting, heavens conspired his OYerthrow : 
 For falling to a devilish exercise, 
 And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, 
 He surfeits on the cursed necromancy. 
 Nothing so sweet as magic is to him. 
 Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss." 
 
 In his impatience to fulfil all the immediate desires and conceptions 
 
 of his soul ; he is willing to give in exchange, his soul and body to 
 
 the great enemy of mankind. By this means whatever he fancies 
 
 becomes present to his sense, and whatever he commands shall be 
 
 done. He calls back time past, and anticipates the future \ all the 
 
 delightsof fortune and pleasure, ambition, and learning are centred 
 
 in his person ; and from a short-lived dream of supreme felicity 
 
 and drunken power, he sinks into an abyss of darkness and perdition 
 
 This is the alternative to which he submits ; the bond which he 
 
 signs with his blood. At the commencement of the play, he opens 
 
 his mind in the following manner : 
 
 "How am I glutted with conceit of this ! 
 Shall T make Spirits fetch me what I please? 
 Resolve me of all ambiguities ? 
 Perform what desperate enterprises I will? 
 I 11 have them fly to India for gold, 
 Eansack the ocean for orient pear], 
 And search all corners of the new-found world 
 For pleasant fruits and )iriiicely delicates. 
 I '11 have them read me strange philosphy ; 
 And tell the secrets of all foreign Kings. 
 I'll have them wall all GerniMny with brass. 
 And with swift Rhine circle all Wertemburgr:
 
 Marlmve. 115 
 
 I'll have them fill the public schools with skill, 
 Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad : 
 I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring , 
 And chase the Prince of Parma from your land ; 
 And reign sole king of all the provinces : 
 Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war 
 Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp bridge, 
 I'll make my servile spirits to invent. 
 Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius, 
 And make me wise with your sage conference." 
 
 One of the most beautiful passages in the whole play, is the 
 interest taken by the three scholars in the fate of their master, and 
 their unavailing attempts to dissuade him from his relentless career. 
 
 First Sch. "Come, gentleman, let us go visit Faustus 
 
 For such a dreadful night was never seen 
 
 Since first the world's creation did begin ! 
 
 Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard. 
 
 Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger ! 
 Second Sch. O help us heaven, see here are Faustus' limbs 
 
 All torn asunder by the hand of death. 
 Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus served hath torn him thus 
 
 For twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought, 
 
 I heard him shriek and call aloud for help ; 
 
 At which same time the liousc seem'd all on fire 
 
 With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. 
 Second Sch. Well, gentleman, thougli Faustus' end be such 
 
 As every Christian heart laments to think on ; 
 
 Yet, for he was a scholar once admired 
 
 For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, 
 
 We"ll give liis mangled limbs due burial ; 
 
 And all the scholars, clothed in mourning black, ^ 
 
 Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. 
 Chorus. Cut is the brand) tliat might have grown full straight 
 
 And burned is Apollo's laurel bougli 
 
 That sometime grew witliin this learned man: 
 
 Faustus is gone. Regard liis liellisli fail, 
 
 \Miosc fiendful fortune may exhort tlie wise 
 
 Only to wonder at unlawfuL things: 
 
 Whose deepness doth entice such fi)rward wits, 
 
 To practise more than lieavcnly power permits." 
 
 Strikingly touching also are his own conilictsof mind and agoniz- 
 ing doubts on the subject l^efore him, struggluv^ witli the extremity 
 of his fate. In the following passage tor instance, wlicre he exclaims 
 to his friend : 
 
 "l>ul Faiislu>' otlcute cnn ne'er ho ]>aniun(.-il. 'llie sei|.enl that 
 tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. O, gentlemen, liear
 
 116 The Early Elizabethan Poets, 
 
 me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches ; though my 
 heart pant and quiver to remember that 1 have been a student 
 here these thirty years. O would I had ne'er seen Wirtemburg, 
 never read book ! and what wonders I have done, all Germany 
 can witness^ yea all the world : for which Faustus hath lost both 
 Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven the seat of 
 God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy, and must 
 remain in hell for ever. Hell, O hell, for ever. Sweet friends, 
 what shall become of Faustus being in hell for ever ?" 
 
 The ending of this play is terrible : the horror of the scene is 
 thrown up in vivid and passionate language ; and his last exclama- 
 tion betrays an anguish of mind, not to be contemplated without 
 shuddering : 
 
 F A u s T u s (T /o^ . The clock strikes eleven . 
 Faust. "O Faustus. 
 
 Now hast thou but one bare hour to live 
 And then thou must be damn'd perpetually. 
 Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven. 
 That time may cease and midnight never come. 
 Fair nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
 Perpetual day : or let this hour be but 
 A year, a month, a week, a natural day, 
 That Faustus may repent and save his soul. 
 O Icnte, Icnte citrritc iioctis eqiti. 
 
 The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike 
 The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. 
 O, I will leap to heaven : who pulls me down ? 
 See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament : 
 One drop of blood will save me : O, my Christ, 
 Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ, 
 ^ Yet will I call on him : O spare me, Lucifer." 
 
 The growing horrors of Faustus' last scene are awfully marked 
 by the hours and half hours as they expire and bring him nearer 
 to the exactment of his dire compact. 
 
 "Where is it now ? 'tis gone ; 
 And see. a threatening arm, and angry brow. 
 Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, 
 And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven. 
 No? then will I headlong run into the earth : 
 Gape earth. O no, it \\ill not harlDOurme, 
 You stars that reign'd al my nativity. 
 Whose influence have alloted death and hell. 
 Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist 
 Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud ; 
 That when you vomit forth into the air,
 
 Decker. 117 
 
 My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, 
 But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven. 
 
 The tvaich strikes. 
 
 O half the hour is past ; 'twill all be past anon. 
 
 O if my soul must suffer for my sin, 
 
 Impose some end to my incessant pain. 
 
 Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 
 
 A hundred thousand, and at last be saved : 
 
 No end is limited to damned souls. 
 
 Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 
 
 Or why is this immortal that thou hast? 
 
 O Pythagoras' Metempshchosis ! were that true, 
 
 That soul should fly from me and I be changed. 
 
 Into some brutish beast. 
 
 All beasts are happy, for when they die, 
 
 Their souls are soon dissolved in elements : 
 
 But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. 
 
 Curst be the parents that engender'd me : 
 
 No, Faustus curse thyself, curse Lucifer, 
 
 That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 
 
 The clock strikes twelve. 
 It strikes, it strikes, now, body, turn to air, 
 Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. 
 O soul, be changed into small water drops, 
 And fall into the ocean ; ne'er be found. 
 
 Thunder, and enter the devils. 
 O mercy, Heaven I look not so fierce on me. 
 Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile : 
 Ugly hell gape not ; come not Lucifer : 
 I'll burn my books : O, Mephostophilis." 
 
 Decker. This poets writings would be worth quoting fully, 
 did these pages allow space. They are sweetly and tenderly 
 written, at the same time possessing the true solidity and power of 
 tragedy. 0/d Fortunatiis may be read as a noble example of 
 Decker's works. He has represented in him all the *'idle garrulity 
 of age, with the freshness and gaity of youth still upon its cheek 
 and heart." In the following passage where the goddess Fortune 
 appears to him, and otters him the choice of six things, there is 
 much to admire : 
 
 Fortune. "Stfiy, Fordmatus ; oncf more hear me speak. 
 If tliou kiss Wisdom's check and make her thine, 
 She'll breathe into thy lips divinity, 
 And tliou (like I'hoebus) shalt speiik oracle; 
 The heaven-inspired 8<nil (in ^\'is(i()m's wiiif^s 
 Shall fly up to the Purliament of Jove, 
 And read the Statutes of Eternity,
 
 118 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 And see what's past and learn what is to come. 
 If thou lay claim to Strength, armies shall quake 
 To see thee frown : as kings at mine do lie 
 So shall thy feet trample on empery. 
 Make Health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof, 
 'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting, 
 Be ever merry, ever revelling. 
 Wish but for Jieauty, and within thin* eyes 
 Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim, 
 And on thy cheeks 111 mix such white and red. 
 That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede, 
 And with immortal arms shall circle thee. 
 Are thy desires Long Life ? thy vital thread 
 Shall be stretch'd out ; thou shalt behold the change 
 Of monarchies, and see those children die 
 Whose great great grandsires now in cradles lie. 
 If through Gold's sacred hunger Ihou dost pine ; 
 Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run 
 To warm their slender bodies in the sun. 
 Shall stand for number of those golden piles 
 Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet ; 
 As those are, so shall these be infinite, 
 Fortunatus. O, whither am I wrapt beyond myself? 
 More violent conflicts fight in every thought. 
 Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought. 
 Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love ? 
 Then I lose Riches : and a wise man poor 
 Is like a sacred book that's never read ; 
 To himself he lives and to all else seems dead. 
 This age thinks better of a gilded fool, 
 Than of a threadbare ?aint in Wisdom's school. 
 I will be Strong : then I refuse Long Life ; 
 And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds 
 There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors: 
 The greatest strength expires with loss of breath. 
 The mightiest in one minute stoop to death. 
 Then take Long Life, or Health ; should I do so, 
 I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll 
 Of months and years much misery may enroll : 
 Therefore I'll beg for Beauty, yet I will not : 
 The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul 
 Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul. 
 The Wisdoni of this world is idiotism ; 
 Strength a weak reed ; Health, Sickness' enemy. 
 And it at length will have the victory. 
 Beaut} is but a painting ; and Long Life 
 Is a long journey in December gone. 
 Tedious and full of tribulation, 
 Therefore, dread sacred empress, make me rich : 
 My choice is Store of G-old ; the rich are wise :
 
 Decker. 119 
 
 He that upon his back rich garme nts wear, 
 Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears. 
 Gold is tlie strength, the sinews of the world, 
 The health, the soul, the beauty most divine ; 
 A mask of gold hides all deformities ; 
 Gold is heaven's pliysic, life's restorative ; 
 O, therefore make me rich !" 
 
 Decker's works have in them the unconscious simplicity of nature, 
 and truth of character. He is not to be admired for his imagina- 
 tive powers : he gives us in Hazlitt's language, the "simple uncom- 
 pounded elements of nature." In his play of the Hottest Whore, 
 we see a simple picture of honour and shame, contrasted with 
 violence, and exposed without morality. We may see in the pas- 
 sage where Bellafront the harlot, recounts some of the miseries of 
 her profession, poor humanity struggling with destiny. 
 
 "Like an ill husband, though I knew the same 
 
 To be my undoing, followed I that game, 
 
 O, when the work of lust had earn'd my bread, 
 
 To taste it how I trembled, lest each bit 
 
 Ere it went down should choke mo chewing it. 
 
 My bed seem'd like a cabin hung in liell. 
 
 The bawd hell's porter^ and the lickorish wine 
 
 The pander fetch 'd was like aTi easy fine 
 
 For which met bought I leas'd away my soul ; 
 
 And oftentimes even in my quafRng-bowl 
 
 Thus said I to myself : I am a whore, 
 
 And have drunk down thus much confusion more." 
 
 And then follow the lines where she contrasts the different regard 
 
 shown to the modest or the abandoned of her sex : 
 
 -When in the street 
 
 A fair young modest damsel I did meet. 
 
 She seom'd to all a dove, when I pass'd by 
 
 And I to all a raven : every eye 
 
 That followed her went witli a bashful glance : 
 
 At me each bold and jeering countenance 
 
 Darted forth scorn : to her as if she bad been 
 
 Some tower unvanquisbed would they vail ; 
 
 'Gainst me swoln rumour boistrd every sail : 
 
 She crown'd with reverend ]iraisc8 pa-^s'd by them, 
 
 I though with face mask'd could not scape the hem: 
 
 For, as if Heaven had set strange marks on whores 
 
 Because they should be ]>ointing stocks to man. 
 
 Drest u]) in eivilest shape a courtezan. 
 
 Let ber walk saint-like noteless and unknown, 
 
 Yet she's betrayed by some trick of her own. "
 
 120 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 The definition which is contained in this work of The Happy Man, 
 is also finely written : 
 
 "He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, 
 He that at noonday walks by a prison door, 
 He that in the sun is neither beam nor moat, 
 He that's not mad after a petticoat. 
 He for whom poor men's curses dig no grave, 
 He that is neither lord's nor lawyer's slave. 
 He that makes This his sea and That his shore, 
 He that in's oofRn is richer than before, 
 He that counts Youth his sword and Age his staff. 
 He whose right hand carves his own epitaph, 
 He that upon his death-bed is a swan, 
 And dead, no crow : he is a Happy Man." 
 
 Heywood. Lamb says of this poet, that he is a sort of prose 
 Shakespeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. 
 But we miss the poet, that which in Shakespeare always appears 
 out and above the surface of the nature. There is nothing 
 startling in Hey wood's works. He exhibits the passions in the 
 simplest circumstances of every day life. His style is natural 
 and constrained : and the dialogue such as might be uttered in 
 ordinary conversation. Heywood's are characters of what we see 
 in life, truly and strikingly written. 
 
 There is an admirable passage in the play A woman killed with 
 
 kindness, where ]\Ir. Frankford discovers his wife's unfaithfulness 
 
 to him, beautifully and tenderly written : 
 
 " Woman, hear thy judgment ; 
 
 Go make thee ready in thy best attire; 
 Take thee with all thy gowns, all thy apparel : 
 Leave nothing that did ever call thee mistress, 
 Or by whose sight, being left here in the house, 
 I may remember such a woman was. 
 Choose thee a bed and hangings from thy chamber ; 
 Take with lliee everything which hath thy mark. 
 And get thee to my manor seven miles off; 
 Where live; tis thine, 1 freely give it thee: 
 My tenants by sliall i'urnish thee with wains 
 To carry all thy stuff within two hours ; 
 No longer will I limit thee my sight. 
 Choose which of all my servants thou likest best, 
 And they are thine to attend thee, 
 Mrs. Fra. A mild sentence. 
 
 But as thou hopest for heaven, as thou believest
 
 Heywood l2l 
 
 Thy name's recorded in the book of life, 
 
 I charge thee never after this sad day 
 
 To see me or to meet me ; or to send 
 
 By word, or writing, gift, or otherwise. 
 
 To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends ; 
 
 Nor challenge any part in my two children. 
 
 So farewell, Nan ; for we will henceforth be. 
 
 As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see. 
 Mrs. Fra. How full my heart is ; in mine eyes appears ; 
 
 What wants in words, I will supply in tears. 
 Fran. Come, take your coach, your stuff ; all must along 
 
 Servants and all make ready, all begone. 
 
 It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. 
 Cran. Why do you search each room about your house, 
 
 Now that you have dispatch'd your wife away ? 
 Fran. O sir, to see that nothing may be left 
 
 That ever was my wife's : I loved her dearly, 
 
 And when I do but think of her uiikindness, 
 
 My thoughts are all in hell ; to avoid which torment, 
 
 I would not have a Ijodkin nor a cuff, 
 
 A bracelet, necklace, or rcbato wire, 
 
 Nor anything that ever was call'd her's, 
 
 Left me, by which I might remember her. 
 
 Seek round about. 
 Nic. Here's her lute flung in a corner. 
 Fran. Her lute? O God ! upon tliis instrument 
 
 Her fingers have ran quick diviion, 
 
 Swifter than that wliich now divides our hearts, 
 
 These frets have made me pleasant, tliat have now 
 
 Frets of my heart strings made. O master Cranwell, 
 
 Oft hath she made this melancholy wood. 
 
 (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) 
 
 Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain 
 
 To her own ravishing voice which being well strung 
 
 What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung ! 
 
 Post with it after her ; now tK)t lung's left ; 
 
 or her and her's I am at once bereft." 
 
 And then a<;ain in the following passage, wliere Mi'S. Frankford 
 is overtaken on her journey by Nicholas with the lute, nothing can 
 be more affecting : 
 
 Mrs. Fra. " I know the lute : oft hnve I sung to thee : 
 We both arc out of tune, l)oth out of time. 
 
 Nk. My master connnends him unto ye ; 
 
 There's all he can find that was ever your^, 
 
 Ho prays you to forget him. and so he bids you farewell. 
 
 Mrs. Fra. I thank him, ho is kind, and ever was. 
 All you that have true fooling of my grief 
 That know my loss, and have relenting hearts,
 
 122 The Early Elizabethan Poets 
 
 Gird me about ; and help me with your tears, 
 
 To wash my spotted sins : my lute shall groan ; 
 
 It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. 
 
 If you return unto your master, say, 
 
 (Though not from me, for I am unworthy 
 
 To blast his name so with a strumpet's tongue.) 
 
 That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead. 
 
 Nay you may say too, (for my vow is past) 
 
 Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. 
 
 This to your master you may say and swear : 
 
 For it is writ in heaven and decreed here. 
 
 Go break this lute on ray coach's wheel, 
 
 As the last music (hat I e'er shall make ; 
 
 Not as my husbands' gift, but my farewell 
 
 To all earth's joy ; and so your master tell. 
 Nic. I'll do your commendations. 
 Mrs. Fra. O no : 
 
 I dare not so presume ; nor to my children : 
 
 I am disclaim'd in both, alas ! I am. 
 
 never teach them, when they come to speak. 
 To name the name of mother ; chide their tongue. 
 IF they by chance light on that hated word, 
 
 Tell them 'tis naught, for Avhen that word they name 
 (Poor pretty souls.') they harp on their own shame. 
 So, now unto my coach, then to my home, 
 So to my death-bed ; for from this sad hour, 
 
 1 never will eat, !ior drink, nor taste, 
 Of any cates that may preserve my life : 
 
 I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest. 
 
 But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white. 
 
 Sweet Saviour, to thy hands I yield my sprite." 
 
 Chapman. This poet belonged also to the class of dramatic 
 writers of this age. He does not seem to have mingled in the 
 dissipations and indiscretions which then marked his profession. 
 Wood says, that "he was a person of the most reverent aspect, 
 religious and temperate." Chapman, however, is best known as 
 a translator of Homer, than as a dramatist. His best tragedy is 
 Bussy d'Ainbotse, but this is written more in the form of a dialogue 
 than a poem or tragedy. Chapman aims at the highest things in 
 poetr}', but his work is utterly destitute of imagination and passion. 
 Dryden says, that "this play pleased only in its representation, 
 like a star which glitters only while it shoots," The following are 
 one or two specimens of his writings ;
 
 Middldon 123 
 
 FALSE GREATNESS 
 
 "As cedars beaten with continual storms, 
 So great men flourish : and do imitate 
 Unskilful statuaries, who suppose, 
 In forming a colossus, if they make him 
 Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape, 
 Their work is goodly, so men merely great. 
 In their affected gravity of voice, 
 Sourness of countenance, manners' cruelty. 
 Authority, wealth, and all the spawn of fortune, 
 Think they bear all the kingdoms worth before them ; 
 Yet differ not from those colossic statues. 
 Which, with heroic forms without o'erspread, 
 Within are naught, but mortar, flint, and lead." 
 
 VIRTUE. POLICY. 
 
 " As great seamen using all their wealth 
 
 And ekills in Neptune's deep invisible paths, 
 In tall ships richly built and ribb'd with brass. 
 To jjut a girdle round about the world ; 
 When they have done it, coming near the haven, 
 Are fain to give a warning piece, and call 
 A poor staid fisherman that never pass'd 
 His country sight, to waft and guide them in ; 
 So when we wander furthest through the waves 
 Of glassy glory, and the gulps of state. 
 Topp'd with all titles, spreading all our reaches. 
 As if each private arm would sphere the earth. 
 We must to Virtue for her guide resort, 
 Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port." 
 
 NICK OF TIME. 
 
 "There is a deep nick in Time's restless wheel 
 For each man's good, when which nick comes, it strikes; 
 As rhetoric yet works not persuasion. 
 Rut only is a moan to make it work ; 
 So no man riscth by his real merit. 
 But when it cries clink in his Raiser's spirit. " 
 
 MiDDLETON. This poet has no particular style of his own, his 
 
 works appear to be made up of the faults and excellencies equally, 
 
 of his contemporaries. There is a great deal of real life drawn in 
 
 his characters particularly in that of Livia the "good neighbour." 
 
 Middleton's Witches arc fine creations, and contain equally fine 
 
 poetry. 
 
 Hecate. "Now I go, now fly, 
 
 Malkin my sweet Spirit and I
 
 124 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 O, what a dainty pleasure 'tis 
 
 To ride in the air 
 
 When tlie moon shines fair, 
 
 And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss ? 
 
 Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, 
 
 Over seas (our mistress' fountains), 
 
 Over steep towers and turrets, 
 
 We fly by night 'mongst troops of Spirits, 
 
 No ring of hells to our ear sounds, 
 
 No howl of wolves, no yelp of hounds ; 
 
 No, not the noise of waters breach, 
 
 Or cannon's throat, our height can reach." 
 
 Webster. The works of this poet, are overflowing with wild 
 and terrible imaginings, carried sometimes almost to an excess. 
 His characters are to a degree, unnatural ; and his sentiments are 
 all adorned with some tender or awful beauty. Yet nothing can 
 be finer than the general conception of his works. Lamb says, 
 " To move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay 
 upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till it 
 is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take 
 its last forfeit : this only a Webster can do. Inferior genuises may 
 upon horror's head, horror's accumulate; but they cannot do this. 
 They mistake quantity for quality ; they 'terrify babes with painted 
 devils,' but they know not how a soul is to be moved. Their 
 terrors want dignity, their affrights are without decorum." This 
 extraordinary power is seen particularly in the death of the Duchess 
 of Malfy : 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 "Hark, now every thing is still; 
 This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, 
 Call upon our dame aloud, 
 And bid her quickly d'on her shroud. 
 Much you had of land and rent : 
 Your length in clay's now competent. 
 A long war disturb'd your mind ; 
 Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 
 Of what is't fools make such vain keeping ? 
 Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping : 
 Their life, a general mist of error ; 
 Their death, a hideous storm of terror. 
 Strew your hair with powder sweet, 
 D'on clean linen, bathe your feet :
 
 Webster. 126 
 
 And (the foul fiend more to check), 
 A crucifix let bless your neck. 
 'Tis now fiill tide 'tween night and day : 
 End your groan, and come away. 
 Cariola. Hence, villians, tyrants, murderers : alas ! 
 What will you do with my lady ? Call for help. 
 Duch. To whom ; to our next neighbours? They are mad folks 
 Farewell, Cariola. 
 
 I pray thee look thou givest my little boy 
 Some syrup for his cold ; and let the girl 
 Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please; 
 What death ? 
 iPoj. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 
 Duch. I forgive them. 
 
 The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough of the lungs, 
 Would do as much as they do. 
 Bos. Doth not death fright you ? 
 Duch, Who would be afraid on't. 
 
 Knowing to meet such excellent company 
 In the other world ? 
 Bos. Yet methinks, 
 
 The manner of your death should much afflict you ; 
 This cord should terrify you. 
 Duch. Not a whit. 
 
 What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 
 With diamonds? or to be smother'd 
 With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
 I know, death hath ten thousand several doors 
 For men to take their exits : and 'tis found 
 They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 
 You may open them both ways; any way:(forheavens sake) 
 So I were out of your whispering : tell my brothers, 
 That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake) 
 Best gift is, they can give or I can take. 
 I would fain put off my last woman's fault, 
 I'd not be tedious to you. 
 Pull and pull strongly, for your able strength 
 Must pull down heaven upon me. 
 Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd 
 As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 
 Must go upon their knees. Come violent death: 
 Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. 
 Go tell my brotbers ; when I am laid out, 
 They then may feed in i\\.wi.(Thcy strangle her, kneeling) 
 KiiRuiNAND enters 
 Ferdinand. Is she deiul ? 
 Bos. She is what you would have her. 
 
 Fix your eye here. 
 Ferd. Constantly. 
 Bos. Do you not weep ?
 
 126 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 Others sins only speak ; murder sbriets out. 
 
 The element of water moistens the earth, 
 
 But blood flies upward and bedews the heavens. 
 Ferd. Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle ; she died young 
 Bos.: I think not so : her infelicity 
 
 Seem'd to have years too many. 
 Ferd, She and I were twins. 
 
 And should I die this instant, I had lived 
 
 Her time to a minute." 
 
 SINGLE LIFE. 
 
 "O fie upon this single life ! forego it. 
 We read how Daphne, for her peevish flight. 
 Became a fruitless bay-tree : Syrinx turn'd 
 To the pale empty reed : Anaxarate 
 Was frozen into marble : whereas those 
 Which married, or proved kind unto their friends 
 Were, by a gracious influence, trans-shaped. 
 Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry; 
 Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars." 
 
 The funeral dirge in The White Devil is also magnificent in its 
 intensity of feeling : 
 
 Funeral Dirge for marcello. 
 
 "Call for the robin-redbreast, and the wren, 
 Since o'er shady groves they hover. 
 And with leaves and flowers do cover. 
 The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
 Call unto his funeral dole 
 The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole. 
 To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 
 And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; 
 But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men. 
 For with his nails he'll dig them up again." 
 
 These are what Hazlit terms the ^^rr/iJ/^ graces of Webster a 
 faculty which we see in no other dramatist of his time except 
 Shakespeare. Let me quote as a last illustration the description 
 by Fracisco of the grief of Cornelia at Marcello's funeral : 
 
 "Your reverend mother 
 Is grown a very old woman in two hours. 
 I found them winding of jNIarcello's corpse : 
 And there is such a solemn melody, 
 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies ; 
 Such as old grandames, watching by the dead. ^
 
 Beaumont. Pletcher. 1^ 
 
 Were wont to outwear the nights with ; that believe me, 
 I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, 
 They were so o'ercharged with water." 
 
 Beaumont. In point of variety and effect, Beaumont stands 
 below the other dramatists of his time. His style is widely differ- 
 ent from theirs, and we may say that he was the first who 
 deviated from the tragic style of that age. He is not a follower 
 of nature like his contemporaries : the character of his writings 
 seem rather to anticipate nature and reason. His poetry leaves a 
 want ; and the mind after reading seems to be unsatisfied. There 
 is nothing in his writings at all masculine. Shakespeare's tone is 
 manly and bracing Beaumont's weak and meretricious. 
 
 Fletcher. This poet is a writer of the same caste. There is 
 that same mixture of effeminacy of character, and weakness, as in 
 Beaumont. They both had immense control over fancy and 
 passion; but they dealt too much in common-place extravagancies 
 and theatrical trick. Hazlitt says, ''they were the first who laid 
 the foundation of the artificial diction and tinselled pomp of the 
 next generation of poets, by aiming at a profusion of ambitious 
 ornaments, and by translating the commonest circumstances into 
 the language of metaphor and passion." There are however many 
 prodigious merits in their works, and many passages worthy of the 
 highest admiration. 
 
 In Tlic Maid's Tragedy, though it is one of the poorest of their 
 works, the passage where Kvadne implores forgiveness of Amintor 
 for marrying him while she was the King's mistress;and Amintor's 
 speech when slie makes confession of her unlooked-for remorse, 
 we see a fine specimen of poetical writing : 
 
 Ezadiic. "O my lord, 
 
 Anii)ttor. Kow nciwl 
 
 Eyad. My much al)use<l lor.l .' 
 
 A mill. This caniicil he, 
 
 Ei'dd. T clo mil kiici'l to live, I dare not hope it: 
 
 'J'ho wroni;.-! 1 did :>re Ljiealer; look upon me, 
 
 M'hou^di I ajipear wiih all my faults. 
 A //lilt. Stand up. 
 
 This i-> no new way Id lietjet more sorrow ; 
 
 Ilejvven knows 1 have l(jo many ; do not mock me ;
 
 128 TJie Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 Though I am tame and bred up with my wrongs, 
 Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap 
 Like a hand-wolf into my natural wilderness, 
 And do an outrage : pray thee, do not mock me. 
 
 Evad. My whole life is so leprous, it infects 
 
 All my repentance, I would buy your pardon 
 Though at the highest set, even with my life. 
 That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice 
 For what I have committed. 
 
 Amin, Sure I dazzle : 
 
 There cannot be a faith in that foul woman. 
 
 That knows no god more mighty than her mischiefs. 
 
 Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults. 
 
 To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe 
 
 There's any seed of virtue in that woman 
 
 Left to shoot up, that dares go on in sin 
 
 Known, and so known as thine is ? O Evadne ! 
 
 Would there were any safety in thy sex, 
 
 That I might put a thousand sorrows off. 
 
 And credit thy repentance ; but I must not ; 
 
 Thou hast brought me to the dull calamity, 
 
 To that strange misbelief of all the world, 
 
 And all things that are in it, that I fear 
 
 I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, 
 
 Only remembering that I grieve. 
 
 Evad. My lord. 
 
 Give me your griefs : you are an innocent. 
 
 A soul as white as heaven ; let not my sins 
 
 Perish your noble youth : I do not fall here 
 
 To shadow my dissembling with my tears, 
 
 As all say women can, or to make less 
 
 What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you 
 
 Knows to be tougher than the hand of time 
 
 Can cut from man's remembrance ; no, I do not ; 
 
 I do appear the same, the same Evadne, 
 
 Dress'd in the shames I lived in, the same monster. 
 
 But these are names of honour, to what I am ; 
 
 I do present myself the foulest creature, 
 
 Most poisonous, dangerous, and despised of men, 
 
 Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus; I am hell. 
 
 Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me. 
 
 The beams of your forgiveness : I am soul-sick, 
 
 And wither with the fear of one condemn'd, 
 
 Till I have got your pardon. 
 
 Amin. Rise, Evadne. 
 
 Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee. 
 
 Grant a continuance of if. I forgive thee ; 
 
 Make thyself worthy of it, and take heed, 
 
 Take heed, Evadne, this be serious ; 
 
 Mock not the powers above, that can and dare
 
 Massinger. 129 
 
 Give thee a good example of their justice 
 To all ensuing eyes, if thou playest 
 With thy repentance, the best sacrifice. 
 Evad. I have done nothing good to win belief, 
 
 My life hath been so faithless ; all the creatures 
 
 Made for heaven's honours have their ends, and good ones. 
 
 But all the conzening crocodiles, false women ; 
 They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores. 
 Men pray against ; and when they die, like tales 
 Ill-told, and unbelieved, they pass away 
 And go to dust forgotten : but, my lord. 
 Those short days 1 shall number to my rest, 
 (As many must not see me) shall, though too late, 
 Though in my evening, yet perceive a will. 
 Since I can do no good because a woman, 
 Reach constantly at something that is near it ; 
 I will redeem one minute of my age. 
 
 Or like another Niobe I'll weep. 
 
 Till I am water. 
 Amin. I am now dissolved : 
 
 My frozen soul melts : may each sin thou hast, 
 
 Find a new mercy : rise, 1 am at peace : 
 
 Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good, 
 
 Before that devil king tempted thy frailty. 
 
 Sure thou hadst made a star : give me thy hand ; 
 
 From tliis time I will know tbee, and as far 
 
 As honour gives me leave, be thy Amintor: 
 
 When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly. 
 
 And pray the gods to give thee happy days: 
 
 My charily shall go along with thee, 
 
 Thougb my embraces nnist be far from thee. 
 
 Mcn^s A'aiitivs more hard a)id subtile than Womeifs 
 
 How stubbornly this fellow answer'd me ! 
 
 There is a vile dishonest trick in man. 
 
 More than in woman : all the men I meet 
 
 Ajipcar thus to me, are harsh and rude, 
 
 Aiul liave a subtility in everything, 
 
 Whicli love could never know ; but we fond women 
 
 Ilarljour the easiest and smoothest thoughts 
 
 And tliink all sliall go so : it is unjust 
 
 That men and women should Ijc match'd together," 
 
 Massinger. As a poet and dramatist, Massinger ranks far 
 below his contemporaries. He rarely touches the heart, or kindles 
 the fancy. There is sometliiiiL; in iiis characters vulgar and unna- 
 tural, and lliey are read with little symp.uliy or enthusiasm, 
 
 The Italian comedy which had so much inlluencc on our early 
 dramatic poets, is seen clearly in this poet's writings, and several 
 
 B
 
 l30 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 passages in his works have a striking resemblance to Moliere. He 
 certainly was a follower of the Italian theatre, which then consisted 
 of nothing else but these burlesque comedies. His Comedy The 
 City Madam which is a satire against the city women for aping 
 the fashions of the Court ladies, is worth quoting as an example of 
 his productions : 
 
 Luke. " Save you, sister. 
 
 I now dare style you so. You were before 
 
 Too glorious to be look'd on : now you appear 
 
 Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces 
 
 Such things 
 
 As tbey were bom and bred there. Why should you ape 
 
 The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles 
 
 And pedigrees of long descent give warrant 
 
 For their superfluous bravery ? 'twas monstrous. 
 
 Till now you ne'er looked lovely. 
 Lady. Is this spoken ? 
 
 In scorn 
 Zz^/v?. Fie, no ; with judgment. I make good 
 
 My promise, and now show ^ou like yourselves, 
 
 In your own natural shapes. 
 Lady. We acknowledge 
 
 We have deserved ill from you, yet despair not. 
 
 Though we'er at your disposure, you'll maintain us 
 
 Like your brother's wife and daughters. 
 Luke. 'Tis my purpose. 
 Lady. And not make us ridiculous. 
 Ltike. Admired rather, 
 
 As fair exaniples for our proud city dames 
 
 And their proud blood to imitate. Hear 
 
 Gently, and in gentle phrase I'll re])rehend 
 
 Your late disguised deformity. 
 
 Your father was 
 
 An honest country farmer, Goodman Ilumtile, 
 
 liy his neighbours ne'er called master. Did your pi-ide 
 
 Descend from him ? but let that pass. Your foi'tune, 
 
 Or rather your husband's industi-y, advanced you 
 
 To the rank of merchant's wife. He made a kniglit, 
 
 And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfied, vou wore 
 
 Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold, 
 
 A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes 
 
 A daint)^ miniver cap, a silver pin 
 
 Ueaded with a j)carl worth threepence ; and thus far 
 
 Y'ou were privileged, and no man envied it ; 
 
 It being for the city's honour that 
 
 There should be di>tinction between 
 
 The wife of a patrician and a plebeian, 
 
 But when the height
 
 Ford. 131 
 
 And dignity of London's blessings grew 
 
 Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress 
 
 Became a by-word, and you scoru'd the means 
 
 By which you were raised (my brother's fond indulgence 
 
 Giving the reins to it) and no object pleased you 
 
 But tlie glittering pomp and bravery of the court ; 
 
 What a strange, nay, monstrous metamphosis follow'd! 
 
 No English workman then could please your fancy ; 
 
 The French and Tuscan dress, your whole discourse ; 
 
 This bawd to prodigality entertain'd. 
 
 To buz into your ears, what shape this countess 
 
 Appear'd in, the last mask ; and how it drew 
 
 The young lord's eyes upon her : and this usher 
 
 Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place, 
 
 To walk before you. Then, as I said, 
 
 (The reverend hood cast off) your borrow'd hair, 
 
 Powder'd and curl'd, was by your dresser's art 
 
 Form'd like a coronet, hang'd with diamonds. 
 
 And the richest orient pearls ; your carkanets. 
 
 That did adorn your neck, of equal value ; 
 
 Your Ilungerlaud bands, and Spanish Quellio ruffs: 
 
 Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey 
 
 Enibroider'd petticoats; and sickness feign'd, 
 
 Tiiat your nightraiis of forty pounds a-piece 
 
 Might bo seen with envy of the visitants: 
 
 Itich pantablcs in ostentation shown, 
 
 And roBos worth a family. You were served 
 
 In plate ; 
 
 Stirr'd not a foot within a coach ; and going 
 
 To church, not for devotion, but to show 
 
 Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried 
 
 Heaven save your honour ! This idolatry 
 
 Paid to a painted room. And, when you lay 
 
 In cliildbed, at the cliristening of tliis minx, 
 
 I well remember it, as you had been 
 
 An absolute princess (since tliey liave no more), 
 
 Three several chambers lumg; the first willi arras, 
 
 And lliat for waters ; tl)c second, crimson satin, 
 
 For tlie meaner sort of guests ; the third of scarlet 
 
 Of tlie rich Tyrian dye: a canopy 
 
 To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state, 
 
 Like I'ompey's Julia. 
 
 Lady. No more, I pray you. 
 
 Luke- Of this be sure you will not. I'll cut off 
 Whatever is exorbitant in you, 
 Or in your daiii,H]ters ; and reduce you to 
 Your natural ibrnis and habits ; not in revenge 
 Of yoin- bnso usago of nie ; but to fright 
 Others by your example." 
 
 Ford. Wc may class Ford as one of the first order of poets.
 
 132 The Early Elizabethan Poets, 
 
 His works exhibit a grandeur of soul, and sublimity of conception. 
 As Lamb truly says " He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in 
 metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full 
 residence in the heart of man : in the actions and sufferings of the 
 greatest minds." Nothing can be grander than the solemn address 
 at the Altar by Calantha to the dead body of her husband, con- 
 tained in the last scene of The Broketi Heart : 
 
 "Of my contracted lord : bear witness all, 
 I put my mother's -wedding-ring upon 
 His finger ; 'twas my lather's last bequest. 
 Thus I new marry him, whose wife I am ; 
 Death shall not separate us. O my lords, 
 I but deceived your eyes with antick gesture, 
 When one news straight came huddling on another 
 Of death, and death, and death; still I danced forward; 
 But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
 Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries 
 Can TOW a present end to all their sorrows ; 
 Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them. 
 They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings, 
 Let me die smiling. " 
 
 For another example of Ford's writings, The Lovet^s MelaJicholy 
 
 is almost incomparable : 
 
 "Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 
 Which poets of an elder time had feign'd, 
 To glorify their Tempe, bred in mo 
 Desire of visiting that paradise, 
 To Thessaly I came, and living private, 
 Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 
 Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
 I day by day frequented silent groves 
 And solitary walks. One morning early 
 This accident encounter'd me : I heard 
 The sweetest and most ravishing contention 
 That art or nature ever were at strife in. 
 A sound of music touch'd mine cars, or rather 
 Indeed entranced my soul: as I stole nearer, 
 Invited by the melody, I saw 
 This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute 
 With strains of strange variety and harmony 
 Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge 
 To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds, 
 That as they llock'd about him, all stood silent. 
 Wondering at what they heard. I wondcr'd too. 
 A nightingale. 
 Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
 
 Benjonson. 133 
 
 The challenge ; and, for every several strain 
 
 The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her down; 
 
 He could not run division with more art 
 
 Upon his quaking instrument, than she 
 
 The nightingale did with her various notes 
 
 Reply to. 
 
 Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last 
 
 Into a pretty anger ; that a bird, 
 
 Wliom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, 
 
 Should vio with him for mastery, whose study 
 
 Had busied many hours to perfect practice : 
 
 To end the controversy, in a rapture 
 
 Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly. 
 
 So many voluntaries, and so quick. 
 
 That there was curiosity and cunning. 
 
 Concord in discord, lines of different method 
 
 Meeting in one full centre of delight. 
 
 The bird (ordain'd to be 
 
 Music s first martyr) .strove to imitate 
 
 These sevenil sounds : which when her warbling throat 
 
 Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute 
 
 And brake licr heart. It wns the quaintest sadness, 
 
 To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
 
 To weep a funeral elegy of tears. 
 
 Ho looks u))on the tropliies of his art. 
 
 Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried 
 
 "Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge 
 
 This cruelty upon the author of it. 
 
 Hencefortli this lute, guilty of innocent blood. 
 
 Shall never more betray a harmless peace 
 
 To an mitimely end : " and in that sorrow, 
 
 As he was pasliing it against a tree, 
 
 I suddenly stept in. " 
 
 Ben Jonson. The works of Jonson appear to be the result of 
 severe and continual labour. The subjects of his plays are gener- 
 ally wearisome, and his greatest fault is that he holds too long on 
 to one idea. Fuller says of him, "His parts were not so ready 
 to ritH of thc7nsclvcs, as able to answer the spur, so that it may be 
 truly said of him, tliat he had an elaborate wit, wrought out of his 
 own industry. He would sit siloit in learned company, and suck 
 in [besides luine^ their several humours into his observation. 
 What was ore in others, he was able to refine himself."* His 
 works manifest great depth of knowledge, both classical and 
 general, but they strike one as being too strained. It has been 
 said of him, that "his plays were works, while others works, were 
 
 " Fuller's "Worthies of Eijgland."
 
 134 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 plays. " He has described with unflinching truth, the vices and 
 passions of his time, and has delineated human nature with extra- 
 ordinary keenness and power. 
 
 Jonson stands without doubt the first comedy writer of that age 
 and his comedies will endure reading, in spite of their occasional 
 vulgarities, so long as there are men of learning to read and admire 
 them. He was not a favourite with his brother writers, perhaps 
 from the fact that he possessed a great amount of arrogance and was 
 desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre. 
 It appears also that his plays were frequently unsuccessful. 
 D'Israeli in his Literary Curiosities has given three Satiric odes, 
 written by Jonson, upon the failure of his '' New -Inn or The Light 
 Heart, " the title of which was printed in the following manner : 
 " New-Inn or The Light Heart ; a Comedy never acted, but 
 most negligently played by some, the King's servants ; and more 
 squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King's subjects, 
 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the readers, his Majesty's 
 servants and subjects, to be judged, 1G31." At the end of this 
 play he published the following ode, in which he threatens to 
 quit the stage for ever ; and turn at once a Horace, an Anacreon, 
 and a Pindar. 
 
 "Come, leave the loathed stage, 
 
 And the more loathsome age ; 
 Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit) 
 
 Usurp the chair of wit. 
 Inditing and arraigning every day 
 
 Something they call a play. 
 
 Let their fastidious, vaine 
 
 Commission of braine 
 Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; 
 They were not made for thee, less thou for them. 
 
 Say that thou pour'st them wheat, 
 
 And they will acorns eat ; 
 'Twere simply fury, still, thyself to waste 
 
 On such as hare no taste ! 
 To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, 
 
 Whose appetites are dead ! 
 
 No, give them graines their fill, 
 
 Husko, Draff, to drink and swill.
 
 Benjonsmu l36 
 
 If they love less, and leave the lusty wine, 
 Envy them not their palate with the swine. 
 
 No doubt Borae mouldy tale 
 
 Like Pericles, and stale 
 As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as the fish. 
 
 Scraps, out of every dish 
 Thrown forth, and rak'd into the common tub. 
 
 May keep up the play-club : 
 
 There sweepings do as well 
 
 As the" best-ordered mcale. 
 For who the relish of these guests will fit, 
 Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit. 
 
 And much good do't you then, 
 
 Brave plush and velvet men 
 Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage-clothes, 
 
 Dare quit, upon your oathes. 
 The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers). 
 
 Of larding your large ears 
 
 With their foul comic socks. 
 
 Wrought upon twenty blocks: 
 Which, if they're torn, andturn'd, and patch'd enough. 
 The gamesters share your guilt, aud you their stuff. 
 
 Leave things so prostitute. 
 
 AtkI take the Alcreich lute. 
 Or thine own Horace or Anacreon's lyre ; 
 
 Warm thee by L'indar's fire ; 
 Aud, tho' thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold. 
 
 Ere ycar.s have made thee old, 
 
 Strike that disdainful heat 
 
 Tiiroiighout, to tlieir defeat ; 
 As curious fool.a, and envii)us of thy strain, 
 May, bhi^-hing, swear no palsy's in thy brain. 
 
 But when they hear thee sing 
 
 The glorious of thy king. 
 His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men ; 
 
 Tlicy may blood-shaken then, 
 Feel ,uch a flesli-quako to possess tlio jiowcrs, 
 
 As they shall cry like ours, 
 
 In sound of jieaco, or wars, 
 
 No liarp ore Iiit tiie sl;ir.H, 
 In turning fortli tiie acts of liis sweet raign, 
 And raising C'liarlos liis chariot- 'bovo his wain. " 
 
 Jensen's play of Foctastcr is a line and noble specimen of his 
 learnini;. Lanil) says, " It was written to confute those enemies 
 of Ben in his own day and ours, who had said that he made a
 
 136 The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 pedantical use of his learning." In it Jonson has revived the 
 whole court of Augustus by a learned spell, and we are admitted 
 to the society of the illustrious dead. It is a very fine passage 
 where Ovid bewails his hard condition in being banished from 
 the Court, and the society of the princess Julia : 
 
 " Banish'd the Court? let me be banish'd life, 
 
 Since the chief end of life is there concluded. 
 
 Within the court is all the kingdom bounded ; 
 
 And as her sacred sphere doth comprehend 
 
 Ten thousand times so much, as so much place 
 
 In any part of all the empire else, 
 
 So every body, moving in her sphere, 
 
 Contains ten thousand times as much in him 
 
 As any other her choice orb excludes, 
 
 As in a circle a magician, then, 
 
 Is safe against the spirit he excites, 
 
 But out of it is subject to his rage. 
 
 And losetli all the virtue of his art ; 
 
 So I, exiled the circle of the court, 
 
 Lose all the good gifts that in it I joy'd. 
 
 No virtue current is, but with her stamp ; 
 
 And no vice vicious, blanch'd with her white hand. 
 
 The court's the abstract of all Rome's desert, 
 
 And my dear Julia the abstract of the court. 
 
 Methinks, now I come near her, I respire 
 
 Some air of that late comfort I receiTcd : 
 
 And while the evening with her modest veil. 
 
 Gives leave to such poor shadows as myself 
 
 To steal abroad, I, hke a heartless ghost. 
 
 Without the living body of my love. 
 
 Will here walk, and attend her. For I know 
 
 Not far from hence she is imprisoned, .^^ /, 
 
 And hopes of her strict guardian to bribe 
 
 So much admittance, as to speak to me, 
 
 And cheer my fainting spirits with her breath. 
 Julia appears above at her chamber tvindcnv. 
 Julia, Ovid I my love ! 
 Ovid. Here, heavenly Julia. 
 Jidia. Here ! and not here ! O, how that word doth play 
 
 \\'ith both our fortunes, different, like ourselves; 
 
 But one, and jet divided, as oppo.-rd ; 
 
 I high, thou low ! O, this our plight of place 
 
 Doubly presents the two lets of our love, 
 
 Local and ceronioiiial height and lowness ; 
 
 Both ways, I am too liigh, and thou too low. 
 
 Our minds are even, yet : O, why should our bodies 
 
 That are their slaves, be so without their rule?
 
 6 en Jonson. 137 
 
 I'll cast myself down to thee ; if I die, 
 I'll ever live with thefl: no height of birth 
 Of place, of duty, or of cruel power, 
 Shall keep me from thee ; should my father lock 
 This body up within a tomb of brass, 
 Yet I'U be with thee. If the forms, I hold 
 Now in my soul, be made one substance with it ; 
 That soul immortal ; and the same "tis now; 
 Death cannot raze the effects she now retaineth : 
 And then may she be anywhere she will. 
 The souls of parents rule not children's souls ; 
 When death sets both in their dissolved estates, 
 Tlien is no child nor father : then eternity 
 Frees all from any temporal respect. 
 I come, my Ovid ; take me in thine arms ; 
 And let me breathe my soul into thy breast. 
 Ovid. O stay, my love ; the hopes thou dost conceive 
 Of thy quick death, and of thy future life, 
 Are not authentical. Thou choosest death, 
 So thou might'st joy thy love in the other life. 
 But know, my princely love, when thou art dead, 
 Thou only must survive in perfect soul ; 
 And in the soul are no affections : 
 We pour out our affections with our blood; 
 And with our blood's affection fade our loves. 
 No life hath love in such sweet state as this; 
 No essence is so dear to moody sense, 
 As flesh and blood, whose quintessence is sense. 
 Beauty, composed of blood and flesh, moves more, 
 And is more plausible to blood and flesh, 
 Than spiritual beauty can be to tlie spirit. 
 Such apprehension as we have in dreams 
 (When sleep, the boiul of sonses, locks them up), 
 Such shall we iiave when death destroys them quite. 
 If love be then thy object, change not life ; 
 Live high and happy still ; J still below. 
 Close with my fort\ines, in thy height shall joy." 
 
 Ovid. "Ay me ! there is no stay 
 
 In amorous pleasures. If both stay, both die. 
 I hear thy father. Ileneo, my diity. 
 Fear forgcth snunds in my (Iclndod ears ; 
 I did not hear him : I am mad with love. 
 There is no spii'it. inulm' liiMvon, that works 
 With such illusion : yet. sncli witi^lieralt kill nie, 
 Kre a sound mind, uilliuul it, save mv lilo. 
 Here on my kii''c- 1 wiH-sliip the hb.-ii placo. 
 That held my guildi ss : and I lie hiving air, 
 That closed lier Iiodv in his silken arms ;
 
 138 "^ The Early Elizabethan Poets. 
 
 Vain Ovid ! kneel not to the place, nor air, 
 She's in thy heart, rise then, and worship there." 
 
 The comparison of the mind to a temple contained in the 
 
 New-Inn is also very fine, and there are some striking passages 
 
 in the Conspiracy of Cataline. For instance, on the morning of 
 
 the conspiracy : 
 
 Leniulus. "It is niethiiiks a morning full of fate : 
 It riseth slowly, as her sulleTi car 
 Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. 
 She is not rosy-finger'd, but swoln black. 
 Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, 
 And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 
 As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day. 
 It does not look as it would have a hail 
 Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns." 
 
 In the Comedy The Case is altered, the passage of Jacques 
 
 worshipping his gold is excellently written : 
 
 "'Tis not to be told 
 What Beryile villanies men will do for gold. 
 O, it began to have a huge strong smell. 
 With lying so long together in a place: 
 I'll give it ve\it, it shall have shift enough ; 
 And if the devil, that envies all goodness, 
 Have told them of my gold, and where I kept it, 
 I'll set his burning nose once more at work 
 To smell where I removed it. Here it is ; 
 I'll hide and cover it with this horse-dung. 
 Who will suppose that such a precious nest 
 Is crown'd with such a dung-hill excrement? 
 In, my dear life, sleep sweetly, my dear child. 
 Scarce lawfully begotten, but yet gotten. 
 And that's enouij;li. Rot all hands that come near thee 
 Except mine own. Burn out all eyes that see thee, 
 Except mine own. All thouglits of thee be poison 
 To their enamour'd hearts, except mine own. 
 I'll take no leave, sweet prince, great emperor, 
 But see thee c\<iY\ minute : king of kings, 
 I'll not be rude to thee, and turn my back 
 In going fi-om thee, but go backward out, 
 A^'itli my face toward thee, witli humble coiiriesies." 
 
 Shirley, Lord Brooks and a few others, claim a place amongst 
 
 the worthies of this era, but these pages will not allow of comment 
 
 upon them. Warton has given an admirable account of these more 
 
 obscure poets, in his History of English Poetry.
 
 Spenser. 139 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Spenser. The name of Spenser, is a name justly revered by all 
 Englishmen. If Chaucer be called the day-star, Spenser may cer- 
 tainly be pronounced, the sunrise of our poetry. Yet their geniuses 
 were eminently different, that of Chaucer was of the active type ; 
 Spenser's of the contemplative : Chaucer was dramatic, Spenser 
 philosophical : Chaucer objective, Spenser subjective. The epitaph 
 on Spenser's tomb is strangely characteristic of this. 
 
 "Here nigh to Chaucer, Spenser lies ; to whom 
 In genius next lie was, as now in tomb." 
 
 "Here nigh to Chaucer, Spenser, stands thy hearse. 
 Still nearer standst thou to biin in tliy Torse ; 
 Whilst tliou didst live, lived English poetry, 
 Now thou art dead, it fears tliat it shall die.'' 
 
 Spenser, however antiquated his style, is certainly the earliest 
 of our modern English poets. The great thing which seems to 
 have prevented him from reaching the pinnacle of poetic excellence, 
 seems to be the excessive wildness of the machinery which he has 
 adopted from the Italian School from Ariosto and Tasso. 
 
 The Fairy Queen, with all its faults of structure, is still the 
 wonder of a third century, and the fountain from which our great 
 poets of the last age imbibed their inspiration most deeply. We 
 cannot with its few defects, be blind to tlie beauty of its many 
 passages. The sublime description of "///; tvlio roith the night 
 durst ride,^' i\ie'^ House of Riches," the ^^ Canto of Jealousy," 
 the "Mask of Cupid, " are splendid specimens of genius. Schlegel 
 says, " The Fairy Quee)i conveys to us a good idea of the romantic 
 spirit manifest in England under Elizabeth, the virgin Queen, 
 whose vanity was flattered by allusions delicately veiled in mytho- 
 logical and poetic guise." Spenser is rich and picturesque, his lyrics 
 breathe an idyalic tenderness, and his muse is altogether redolent 
 of the old Troubadours. 
 
 There is a richness in the allegorical fictions of Spenser, which 
 almost vies with t!ie splendour of the ancient mythology, although
 
 140 Spenser. 
 
 inconsistent to an excess. In reading his works, we live among 
 ideal beings ; he is the painter of abstracts, and he is picturesque 
 solely from his intense love of beauty : but his delineations are not 
 guided by truth rather by the movements of an inexhaustible 
 imagination. His strength assumes the character of vastness and 
 sublimity, seen through the same visionary and preternatural 
 medium. Take, as an example, his Cave of Mammon, of which I 
 will quote a few verses : 
 
 "At last he came unto a gloomy glade, 
 Cover'd with boughs and shrubs from heaven's light, 
 Whereas he sitting found in secret shade 
 All uncouth, savage, and uncivil wight, 
 Of griesly hue and foul ill favour'd sight ; 
 His face with smoke was tann'd, and eves wereblear'd, 
 His head and beard with soot were ill bedight. 
 His coal black hands did seem to have been sear'd. 
 In smith's lire-spitting forge, and nails like claws appear'd. 
 
 His iron coat, all overgrown with rust, 
 
 Was underneath enveloped with gold. 
 
 Whose glist'ning gloss, darkened with filthy dust, 
 
 Well yet appeared to have been of old 
 
 A work of rich entail and curious mould. 
 
 Woven with antics and wild imagery ; 
 
 And in his lap a mass of coin he told, 
 
 And turned upside down, to feed his eye 
 
 And covetous desire with his huge treasury, 
 
 And round about him lay on every side 
 
 Great lieaps of gold that never could be spent ; 
 
 Of whicli some were rude ore, not purified, 
 
 Of Mulciber's devouring element; 
 
 Some others were new driven and distent 
 
 Into great ingots and to wedges square ; 
 
 Some in round jDlates without a moniment ; 
 
 But most were stamp'd, and in their metal bare 
 
 The antique shapes of kings and kesars strange and rare. 
 
 Soon as he Guyon saw, in great affright 
 
 And haste he rose for to move aside 
 
 Those precious hills from stranger's envious sight, 
 
 And down them poured through an hole full wide 
 
 Into the hollow earth, them there to hide. 
 
 But Guyon. lightly to him leaping, slay'd 
 
 His hand tliat trembled as one terrified ; 
 
 And though himself were at tlie sight dismayed, 
 
 Yet him perforce restrain'd, and to him doubtful said:
 
 Spenser. 141 
 
 What art thou man, (if man at all thou art) 
 
 That here in desert hast thine habitence, 
 
 And these rich hills of wealth dost hide apart 
 
 From the world's eye, and from her right usance? * 
 
 Thereat, with staring eyes fixed askance, 
 
 In great disdain he answer'd : 'Hardy Elf, 
 
 That darest view my direful countenance, 
 
 I read thee rasli aiul heedless of thysolf, 
 
 To trouble my still scat, atid heaps of precious pelf. 
 
 God of the world and worldlings I me call, 
 
 Great Manniion, greatest god below the sky. 
 
 That of my plenty pour out unto all, 
 
 And unto none my graces do envy : 
 
 Riches, renown, and principality, 
 
 Honour, estate, and all this world's good. 
 
 For which men toil and sweat incessantly, 
 
 From mo do flow into an iunple flood, 
 
 And in the hollow earth have their eternal brood. 
 
 x- * * * 
 
 At length they came into a larger space, 
 That stretch'd itself into an ami)le plain ; 
 Through which a beaten broad highway did trace 
 That straight did lead to Pluto's griesly reign. 
 By that wayside there sat internal Pain, 
 And last beside him sat tiunultnous strife : 
 The one in hand an iron whip did strain ; 
 The other brandished a bloody knife ; 
 And both did gnash their teeth, and both did threaten life. 
 
 On the other side in one consort there sate 
 
 Cruel Revenge, and rancorous Despite, 
 
 Disloyal Treason, and heart-burning Hate ; 
 
 Rut gnawing Jealousy, out of their sight 
 
 Sitting alone, his bitter lips did bite, 
 
 Atul trembling Fear still to and fVo did flv, 
 
 And found no place where safe he shroud him might : 
 
 Lamenting Sorrow did in darkness lif, 
 
 And Shame his ugly face did hide from living eye. 
 
 And over them sad horror with L'rini hue 
 Did always sore, bea.ini his iron wings; 
 And after him owls ami nitrlit-ravons Ih'W, 
 The hateful messengers of heavy tliin^js, 
 Of death aiul dolor tcllinn; sad tidings ; 
 While sad Celeno, sillint; on a clill'. 
 A song of hale ami bitter sorrow sings, 
 I'hat heart of flint as\nider could liavo rift ; 
 Which having ended after him she llieth swift. 
 
 All these before the gates of Pluto lay. 
 
 By whom they passing spake unto them nought, 
 
 * Us<ige,
 
 142 Spenser. 
 
 But th' elfin knight with wonder all the way, 
 
 Did feed his e3'e.s, and filled his inner thought. 
 
 At last him to a little door he brought. 
 
 That to the gate of hell, which gaped wide, 
 
 Was next adjoining, nor them parted ought : 
 
 Betwixt them both was but a little stride, 
 
 That did the house of Eiches from hell's mouth divide. 
 
 * * -x- * 
 
 In all that room was nothing to be seen 
 But huge great iron chests, and coffers strong, 
 All barred with double bends that none could ween. 
 Them to efforce by violence or wrong: 
 On every side they placed were along ; 
 But all the ground with skulls were scattered, 
 And dead men's bones, wliich round about were flung. 
 Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there were shed. 
 And their yile carcases now left unburied. 
 
 They forward pass; nor Guyon yet spoke word, 
 
 Till that they came unto an iron door. 
 
 W^hich to them opened of his own accord. 
 
 And showed of riches such exceeding store. 
 
 As eye of man did never see before, 
 
 Nor ever could within one place be found. 
 
 Though all the wealth which is, or was of yore, 
 
 Could gathered be through all the worl 1 around. 
 
 And that above were added to that undei-ground. 
 
 The charge thereof unto a covetous Sprite 
 
 Commanded was, who thereby did attend, 
 
 And warily awaited day and night. 
 
 From other covetous fiends it to defend. 
 
 Who it to rob and ransack did intend, 
 
 Then Mammon, turning to that warrior, said ; 
 
 Lo ! here the world's bliss : lo ! here the end. 
 
 To which all men do aim, rich to be made, 
 
 Such grace now to be happy is before thee laid. 
 
 'Certes,' (said he) I'll not thine offer'd grace, 
 
 Nor to be made so happy do intend: 
 
 Another bliss before mine eyes I place, 
 
 Another happiness another end. 
 
 To them that list these base regards I lend ; 
 
 But I in arms, and in achievement brave. 
 
 Do rather choose my flitting hours to spend, 
 
 And to be Lord of those that riches have. 
 
 Than them to have myself and be their servile slaves. 
 
 Thereat the fiend his gnashing teeth did grate, 
 
 And griev'd so long to lack his greedy prey ; 
 
 For well he weened that so glorious bait. 
 
 Would tempt his guest to take thereof assay :
 
 S)penser. 1 43 
 
 Had he so done, he had him snatched away, 
 More light than Culver in the falcon's fist. 
 Eternal God thee save from such decay! 
 But, when as Mammon saw his purpose miss'ed, 
 Him to entrap unwares another way he wist. 
 
 Thence forward he him led, and shortly brought 
 Unto another room, whose door forthright 
 To him did open, as it had been taught. 
 Therein a hundred ranges there were pight, 
 And hundred furnaces all burning bright : 
 Deformed creatures, horrible in sight, 
 And every end his busy pains applied 
 To melt the golden metal ready to be tried. 
 
 One with great bellows gathered filling air, 
 
 And with forc'd wind the fuel did inflame. 
 
 Another did the dying brands repair, 
 
 With iron tongs, and sprinkled oft the same. 
 
 With liquid waves, fierce Vulcans rage to tame, 
 
 Who, mast 'ring them, renewed his former heat : 
 
 Some secured the dross that from the metal came, 
 
 Some stirred the molten ore with ladles great: 
 
 And every one did toil, and every one did sweat. 
 
 But, when an earthly wight they present saw, 
 
 Glistening in arms and battailous array. 
 
 From their hot work they did tliemselves withdraw, 
 
 To wonder at the sight ; for till that day 
 
 They never creatures saw that came that way : 
 
 Their staring eyes sparkling with fervent fire. 
 
 And ugly shapes did nigh the man dismay. 
 
 That, were it not for shame, he would retire ; 
 
 Till that him thus bcspake tlieir sovereign Lord and sire." 
 
 The description of Ccllas in the Cave of Despair is also exqui- 
 sitely drawn. In the Fairy Queen the three first books are very 
 superior to the others. Macaiilay says, "The story of the Fairy 
 (^ueen is more like a succession of triumphal arches than a regular 
 building : we pass on with admiration and delight, and yet both are 
 occasionally cooled by the labrynthical irregularity of the design. 
 We miss that regular subserviency of minor events and characters 
 to those which arc great and important, which constitute the charm 
 of a perfect story, whether wc callit epic or by any other ajipcllation." 
 Spenser's personification, notw ith.'-tanding, is excessively inconsis- 
 tent. Superlative heroes and i)ecrlcss ])cautics are crowded upon us 
 in such numbers, that wc lose sight of lliem in the blaze of each other.
 
 144 Spenser. 
 
 Many of Spenser's allegories contain allusions to living historical 
 personages of that time. Gloriana is an emblem of Queen Eliza- 
 beth ; Envy a type of the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, and the 
 Knight in dangerous distress, is Henry IV of France. 
 
 Two of the finest examples of this poet's writings are the pas- 
 sages where Una is followed by the lion in Caftto III. of the first 
 Book ; and when Belpheebe finds Smais wounded, and conveys 
 him to her dwelling. {Book III Canto V.) 
 
 "Nought is there under heaven's wild hollowness, 
 That moves more dear compassion of mind, 
 Than beauty brought t'unworthy wretchedness 
 Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind. 
 I, whether lately through her brightness blind, 
 Or through all allegiance, and fast fealty. 
 Which I do owe unto all womankind. 
 Feel my heart press'd with so great agony, 
 "When such I see, that all for pity I could die. 
 
 And now it is impassioned so deep, 
 
 For fairetst Una's sake, of whom I sing. 
 
 That my frail eves these lines with tears do steep, 
 
 To think how she through guileful handling, 
 
 Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, 
 
 Though fair as ever living wiglit was fair, 
 
 Though nor in word nor deed ill meritmg. 
 
 Is from her knight divorced in despair. 
 
 And her due loves derivjd to that vile witches share. 
 
 Yet she, most faithful lady all this while 
 
 Forsaken, woful, solitary maid, 
 
 Far from all people's press, as in exile, 
 
 In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd. 
 
 To seek her knight ; who, subtily betrsiy'd 
 
 Through that late vision which th' enchanter wrought. 
 
 Had her abandon'd. She of nought afraid, 
 
 Through woods and waste wide him daily sought ; 
 
 Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. 
 
 One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, 
 
 From her uuhasty beast she did alight ; 
 
 And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay, 
 
 In secret shadow, far (Vom all men's sight. 
 
 From her fair head her fillet she undid, 
 
 And laid her stole aside. Her angei'^ f cc, 
 
 As tlie great e\e ^^' heaven, sinned bright, 
 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 
 
 Did never mortal eyo behold such heavenly grace.
 
 Spenser. 145 
 
 It fortuned, out of the thickest wood, 
 
 A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
 
 Hunting tull greedy after savnge blood. 
 
 Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, 
 
 With gaping mouth at lier ran greedily, 
 
 To have at once devoured her tender corse ; 
 
 But to the prey when as lie drew more nigh, 
 
 His bloody rage assuaged with remorse. 
 
 And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force. 
 
 Instead thereof, he kiss'd her weary feet. 
 
 And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue, 
 
 As he her Avronged innocence did weet ; 
 
 O, how can beauty master the most strong, 
 
 And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
 
 Whose yielded pride and proud submission. 
 
 Still dreading death, wiicn she had marked long, 
 
 Her heart gan melt in great coniiiassion 
 
 And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 
 
 'The Lion, lord of every beast in field,' 
 Quoth she, 'his princely puissance dotii abate. 
 And miglity proud to humble weak does yield. 
 Forgetful of the hungry rage, whicii late 
 Him prirk'd, in pity of my sad estate : 
 But he, my I /ion, and my noble Lord, 
 How does he find in cruel heart to hate 
 Her, that him lov"d and ever most ador'd. 
 As the God of my life? why hath he me abhorr'd.' 
 
 Redounding tears did choke Ih' end other plaint. 
 
 Which softly eolioed from tlie neigliliouring wood : 
 
 And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, 
 
 The kingly beast ujion her gazing stood : 
 
 With pity calmed down fell his angry mood ; 
 
 At last in close heart shutting up her pain, 
 
 Arose the virgin, lioru of heavenly brood 
 
 And to her snowy palfrey got ajrain. 
 
 To seek her stray'd chain[)ion if she might attain. 
 
 The Lion would not leave her desolate, 
 But with lier went along, as a strong guard. 
 Other chaste ))(>r80n, and a faithful mate 
 Other siid troubles and misfortunes hard: 
 Still, when she slept he kcjH both watch and ward ; 
 And, when she wali'd, lie waited diligent, 
 With humble service to her will ]irepared : 
 From her fair eyes ii(> took coinniaiidment, 
 And ever by her looks coneeivt'il her intent. 
 
 Long slie tlius travell(>d tbroutjh deserts wide, 
 
 By which slie tliou^dit her wand'rint; knigiil should pass, 
 
 Yet never show of living wight espied
 
 146 Spenser. 
 
 Till that at length she found the trodden grass, 
 In which the tract of people's footing was, 
 Under the steep foot of a mountain hore : 
 The same she follows, till at last she has 
 A damsel spied, slow footing her before. 
 That on her shoulders sad a pot of water bore. 
 
 To whom approaching she to her gan call, 
 
 To wit if dwelling place were nigh at hand, 
 
 But the rude wench her answered nought at all, 
 
 She could not hear, nut speak, nor understand ; 
 
 Till, seeing by her side the lion stand. 
 
 With sudden fear her pitcher down she threw, 
 
 And fled away: for never in that land 
 
 Face of fair Lady she before did view, 
 
 And that dread lion's look her cast in deadly hue. 
 
 Full fast .she fled, nor ever looked behind, 
 
 As if her life upon the wager lay; 
 
 And home she came, whereas her mother blind, 
 
 Sate in eternal night, nought could she say ; 
 
 But, sudden catching hold, did her dismay 
 
 With quaking hands, and other signs of fear : 
 
 Who, full of ghastly fright and cold affray, 
 
 Gan shut the door. By this arrived there 
 
 Dame Una, weary Dame, and entrance did require. 
 
 Which when none yielded, her unruly page. 
 
 With his rude claws the wicket open rent. 
 
 And let her in; where, of his cruel rage 
 
 Nigh dead with fear, and faint astonishment 
 
 She found them both in darksome corner jjent, 
 
 W^here that old woman day and night did pray 
 
 Upon her beads, devoutly penitent: 
 
 Nine hundred Pater Nosters every day 
 
 And thrice nine hundred Aves she was wont to say. 
 
 And to augment her painful penance more. 
 
 Thrice every week in ashes she did sit. 
 
 And next lier wrinkled skin rough sackcloth wore. 
 
 And thrice three times did fast '(ijy any bit: 
 
 But now, for fear her beads she did forget : 
 
 Whose needless dread for to remove away, 
 
 Fair Una framed words and count"nance fit ; 
 
 Which hardly done, at length she gan them prav, 
 
 That in their cottage small that night she rest her mav. 
 
 The day is spent ; andcometh drowsy night. 
 
 When every creature shrouded is in sleep. 
 
 Sad Una down her lays in weai-y plight. 
 
 And at iier feet the lion watcli doth keep : 
 
 Instead of rest she does lament and weep. 
 
 For the late loss of her dear loved knight.
 
 Spenser. 147 
 
 And sights, and groans, and evermore does steep 
 
 Her tender breast in bitter tears all night; 
 
 All night she thinks too long, and often looks for light." 
 
 With one sole exception, Spenser's Fairy Queen is the most noble 
 literary monument of the Elizabethan age. The gorgeous allegory 
 expresses in apt similitudes the fulness, energy, and beauty of the 
 national life. In Elizabeth^ her subjects reverenced the visible 
 head and symbol of the divine order and society of which they were 
 members by right of birth. The defects of her personal character 
 were scarcely discernible in the blaze of ideal splendour that sur- 
 rounded her throne, while her nobler qualities had full scope and 
 instant recognition. In this poem we see reflected and interpreted 
 the history of this great era of the English nation, the era which 
 succeeded the defeat of the Spanish Armada. By this event 
 "domestic treason," had been crushed, and Englishmen were 
 fulfilling and transcending the aspirations of chivalry. With the 
 Elizabethan worthies, it was an instinct to uphold, each in his own 
 person, and in the performance of the task assigned him, the hon- 
 our of the English names, and to heed no cost, sacrifice, or danger 
 where that was concerned. And these are the facts that we see 
 so correctly and strikingly exemplified in this great poet's work. 
 
 Spenser's life is wrapt in an obscurity similar to that of his great 
 contemporary, Shakespeare. The birth year of each poet is 
 determined by inference. The only sure information we have 
 is, that they were both men of the greatest learning that they 
 both died in the close vicinity of Westminster Abbey, and lie 
 buried near each other in that splendid cemetery. 
 
 We may see much of Spenser's life in various parts of his works, 
 even to his birth; for in his Protlialamiiini he sings of certain swans 
 whom in a vision he saw floating down the river "Themmes,'' that, 
 "At longth thoy all to merry London came, 
 
 To merry London, my mosl kindly iinrsc. 
 
 That to me gave tills lil'i's first naiivo sourco. 
 
 Though from anollier ))laci> I take my name. 
 
 An house of ancient fame." 
 
 In the same way we learn that his mother's natnc was Klizabeth. 
 This appears from Sonnet seventy-foui where he apostrophizes those
 
 148 Spenser. 
 
 "Most happy letters ! framed by skilful trade 
 With which that happy name was first designed, 
 The which three times thrice happy hath me made 
 With gilts of body, fortune and of mind. 
 The first my being to me gave by kind 
 From mother's womb derived by due descent. 
 The second is my sovereign Queen most kind, 
 That honour and large ricbes to me lent : 
 The third, my love, my life's last ornament, 
 By whom my spirit out of dust was raised. 
 To speak her praise and glory excellent, 
 Of all alive most worthy to be praised. 
 Ye three Elizabeths ! for ever live, 
 That three such graces did unto me give." 
 
 We may further learn that Spenser was not London bred, but that 
 his youth was spent amid the fair sights and sounds of the country. 
 From his very boyhood he lived with nature face to face. He 
 wandered at his own sweet will about the hills and dales that 
 surrounded his rural home. The life he led in his younger days 
 is described with much fervour in one of his earliest poems. 
 
 "VVliilome in youth, wlien flower'd my joyful spring, 
 Liice swallow swift I wandered here and there; 
 For hpat of heeflless lust nif so did sting. 
 That I of doiil)ted danger Imd no fear :_ 
 I went the wasteful woods and forest wide, 
 Without a dread from wolves to be espied. 
 
 I wont to range, amid the mazy tliickct, 
 And gather nuts to make me (Jhrislmag game, 
 And joyed oft lo chase the tremt)ling j^ricket, 
 Or hunt the artless liare till slie \\i^\-q lame. 
 
 What i-ecked I of wintry ages waste? 
 
 'J'lio' deemed I my spring would ever last. 
 
 How often have I scaled the craggy Oke, 
 All to dislodge the raven other nest ? 
 How have 1 wearied with many a stroke 
 The stately walnut-tree, the while tke rest 
 
 Undei- the tn^e fell all foi" nuts at strife? 
 
 For like to me was libei-ty and lifi\ 
 
 And foi' I was the same in losci' years, 
 (AVhelhor the Muse so wi-ought nie from my birth, 
 Or I too much helievod my shepherd peers.) 
 Somewhat ineliu'd to song and music's mirth, 
 A good olii shejjlici'd, W'l-enock was his name, 
 Made me by art nioi-e cunning' in the same. 
 From tlienco I dur,-t in daring-dtrds compare 
 With shepherd swain tliat ever fed in Held :
 
 Shakespeare. 149 
 
 And, if that Hobbinol right judgment bear, 
 To Pan his own self pipe I need not yield ; 
 
 For, if the flocking Nymphs did follow Pan, 
 
 The wiser Muses after Colin ran. 
 
 But ah ! such pride at length was ill repaid : 
 The shepherds God (truly God was he none) 
 My hurtless pleasures did me ill upbraid; 
 My freedom lorn, my life he left to moan. 
 
 Love they him called that gave me check-mate, 
 But better mightest they have call'd him Hate. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Shakespeare. Campbell says, " Shakespeare is the poet of 
 the world. The magnitude of his genius puts it beyond all private 
 opinion to set defined limits to the admirationvvhich is due to it. 
 We dread the interference of criticism with a fascination so often 
 inexplicable by critical laws, and justly apprehend that any man in 
 standing between us and Shakespeare, may show for pretended 
 spots upon his disk, only the shadows of his own opacity." 
 
 In this work, I have only aimed at expressing a passing thought, 
 and quoted a few of what have not only appeared to me, but are 
 generally acknowledged as the finest inspirations of this immortal 
 bard. And even this has in it somewhat of a difficulty ; for the 
 passages which we most admire are those which appeal near- 
 est to our feelings ; and it is possible that those which I admire 
 the most, may not accord with the admiration of my readers. 
 Emerson observes, "Shakespeare is the only biographer of Shakes- 
 peare; and even he can tell notliing, except to the Sliakespeare 
 in us ; that is, to our most ap]irchensive and sympathetic liour.'' 
 We have his recorded convictions on lliosc Cjuestions wliicli knock 
 for answer at every heart on life and death, on love and weallh, 
 and poetry, on the prizes of life, and the ways whereby weccimeat 
 them ; on the characters of men, and the intlucnces, occult and 
 open, wliich aftcct their fortunes; and on tlio.-^e mysterious and 
 demoniacal powers which defy our science, and which yet inter- 
 vene their malice and their gift in our brightest iiours.
 
 160 Shakespeare. 
 
 The works of Shakespeare have become to a large part of the 
 world, one of the necessities of Hfe. In no other man's books 
 probably, is there to be found, so much truth, wisdom, and beauty 
 as in his. Great to all men, he is great to the greatest, and the 
 homage of the highest intellects in the world is silently or with 
 eloquent speech yielded to him. Among the many terms which 
 have been applied to him, the following are some of the phrases 
 in which other great men have striven to express their sense of 
 his superiority : he has been called, the "myriad-minded man,'' 
 the "greatest intellect who in one recorded world has left record of 
 himself in the way of literature, " the " poet of the human race, " 
 the "melodious priest of a /r?/^ Catholicism. " Ben Jonson, Mil- 
 ton, Dryden, Pope, and in our own day Coleridge, De Quincey, 
 Carlyle, and Emerson, have led the chorus of his praise. In 
 Germany, Lessing, Herder, Tieck, Wieland, Schlegel and Goethe, 
 have contributed to establish his supremacy. 
 
 Pope says," If ever any author deserved the name oi an original, 
 it was Shakespeare. Homer himself drew not his art so immediately 
 from the fountains of nature : it proceeded through Egyptian 
 strainers and channels, and came to him not without some tincture 
 of the learning, or some cast of the models of those before him. 
 The poetry of Shakespeare was inspiration : indeed, he is not so 
 much an imitator, as an instrument of nature; and it is not so just to 
 say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through him. His 
 characters are so much nature herself, that it is a sort of injury to 
 call them by so distant a name as copies of her. Those of other 
 poets have a constant resemblance, which shows that they received 
 them from one another, and were but multipliers of the same image: 
 each picture, like a mock-rainbow, is but a reflection of a reflection. 
 But every single cliaracter in Shakespeare is as much an individual 
 as those in life itself, it is as impossible to find any two alike; and such 
 as from their relation or affinity in any respect appear most to be 
 twins, will upon comparison be found remarkably distinct. To this 
 life and variety of character we must add the wonderful preservation 
 of it; which is such throughout his plays, that had all the speeches
 
 Shakespeare. 161 
 
 been printed without the very names of the persons, I believe one 
 might have applied them with certainty to every speaker." 
 
 And this power, as Pope has truly said, "Shakespeare alone 
 possessed. He is the only one who has put into the mouth of an 
 actor, a speech which the person whom that actor was intended to 
 represent, might have spoken on the occasion to which it was as- 
 signed." In the well-known dialogue between Brutus and Antony, 
 it seems to us they must have uttered the same words. We per- 
 ceive the same reality, and exact representation of characters 
 in many other places. Hamlet might have pronounced the very 
 soliloquy, Macbeth and his Lady might have held the same dialogue, 
 and Falstaff and the merry Wives of Windsor, might have had 
 the same conversations as Shakespeare has ascribed to them. 
 
 It is observed by Schlegel of Shakespeare. " Profound sympathy 
 with Nature is diffused throughout his works, constituting, as it 
 were, their very soul : and it is this which animates his muse with 
 a fascinating grace of rich transparent beauty. This peculiar 
 element of Shakespeare's poetry, still remains a characteristic of 
 modern art, and will yet obtain a fuller development, when a 
 higher poetry shall no longer represent the superficial aspects of 
 every day life, but the secret life of the soul, in man as well as in 
 Nature. In this point of view, his profound insight into Nature's 
 secret workings, transports Shakespeare beyond the limits of 
 dramatic verse." * 
 
 This poet has attained a height and depth of dramatic represen- 
 tation which completely throws into the shade the most elaborate 
 efforts of educated and artistic bards : his works are a mirror of 
 actual life, inspired with glorious poetry, arousing in men all the 
 deeper, and hidden feelings of humanity. Fuller says, "He was an 
 eminent instance of the truth of that rule, poeia nan fit, scd nas- 
 citur ; one is not made but born a poet. Indeed his lear)iing was 
 but very little; so that as Cornish diamonds are not polished by any 
 lapidary, but are polished and smoothed even as they are taken 
 out of the earth, so Nature itself was all the art which, was used 
 upon him.'"t It seems difficult to say anything of Shakespeare 
 
 ' Schlcgel's History of Literature. 
 \ "Worthies of England."
 
 152 Shakespeare. 
 
 that has not been said before. Whoever has read the volume of 
 the Sonnets without finding that the poet had there revealed under 
 masks, that are no marks to the intelligent, the core of friendship 
 and of love, the confusion of sentiments in the most susceptible, 
 and at the same time the most intellectual of men. Almost every 
 trait in his private life, we can see delineated and exemplified in 
 his dramas. In his numerous pictures of the gentleman and the 
 king, we may see what forms and humanities pleased him ; his 
 delight in troops of friends, in large hospitality and cheerful giving. 
 Let Simon, let Warwick, let Antonio the merchant, answer for his 
 great heart. Little as we seem to know of Shakespeare, he is the 
 one person in all modern history best known to us. 
 
 As a dramatist Shakespeare ranks first in the world, nor can 
 there be found a single poet, ancient or modern, worthy to be com- 
 pared with him : by his fancy he raises before us, as it were, the 
 veil of an invisible world. 
 
 Shakespeare's youth fell at a time when the English were im- 
 portunate for dramatic entertainments; every convenient place was 
 made into a theatre. The best proof of its validity is the crowd of 
 writers which suddenly broke into the field ; most of which I have 
 already spoken in the earlier chapters of this work. Thus it was 
 that those who had to supply its demands, laid their hands upon 
 everything within their reach, they were not particular as to the 
 scenes, as long as they gained their ends. And Shakespeare in com- 
 mon with the rest worked upon popular tradition. We read, 
 "The poet owes to his legend, what sculpture owed to the temple." 
 Sculpture in Egypt and in Greece, grew up in subordination to 
 architecture. It was the ornament of the temple wall: at first a 
 rude relief carved on pediments, then the relief became bolder, 
 and a head or arm was projected from the wall, the groups being 
 still arranged with reference to the building, which serves also 
 as a frame to hold the figures ; and when, at last the greatest 
 freedom of style and treatment was reached, the prevailing genius 
 of architecture still enforced a certain calmness and continence in 
 the statue. As soon as the statue was begun for itself, and with
 
 Shakespeare. 153 
 
 no reference to the temple or palace, the art began to decline : 
 freak extravagance and exhibition took the place of the old tem- 
 perance. This balance-wheel which the sculptor found in 
 architecture, the perilous irritability of poetic talent found in the 
 accumulated dramatic materials to which the people were already- 
 wonted, and which had a certain excellence which no single gen- 
 ius, however extraordinary, could hope to create." Shakespeare 
 knew that tradition supplies a better fable than invention 
 can. The demand for originality was not so much then as it is 
 now. There was no literature for the million. The cheap 
 press was unknown. Shakespeare accordingly attached himself to 
 the drama, but even in his rudest efforts, he has introduced elements 
 of gigantic grandeur and horror ; even the representations of 
 human degradation, which passed for merry jests with the vulgar, 
 were in his reflecting spirit, joined with feelings of contempt or 
 sorrowful sympathy. It is remarked, "Shakespeare has no pecu- 
 liarity, no importunate topic ; but all is duly given, the great he 
 tells greatly; the small, subordinately. He is wise without emphasis 
 or assertion; he is strong as nature is strong, who lifts the land into 
 mountain slopes without effort, by the same rule as she floats a 
 bubble in the air, and like as well to do the one as the other." 
 
 There is no doubt that Shakespeare borrowed from all directions 
 and used whatever he found. But he used them well. It was 
 part of his genius ; he 
 
 Exhausted world, and then imagined new ; 
 although in reality the new world could only be made up of the 
 elements supported by the old. 
 
 Shakespeare represents the world as it stood before him; he re- 
 flects in his writings what he felt and saw, though all separate from 
 himself. To again quote Schlegel's words," Others ha\c sought to 
 transport us for a moment, to an ideal condition of humanity : he 
 presents us with a picture of man, in the depths of liib tail and 
 moral disorganization, with all his doings and sufferings, his 
 thoughts and desires, with a painful minuteness. "' The youthful 
 icrvour of love in his Romeo is a mere inspiration of death :
 
 154 Shakespeare. 
 
 " O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright ! 
 Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear: 
 Eeauty too rich i'or use, tor earth too dear ! 
 So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 
 As yonder lady o'er her fellows show, 
 The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, 
 And, touching hers, make happy my rude hand. 
 Did ray heart love till know ? foreswear it, sight ! 
 For I ne'er saw true beauty till this nigVit." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 'Tis torture, and not mercy; heaven is here, 
 Where Juliet lives ; and every cat, and dog. 
 And little mouse, every unworthy thing. 
 Live hero in heaven, and may look on her, 
 But Romeo may not. More validity, 
 More honourable state, more courtship lives 
 In carrion flies, than Romeo: they may seize 
 On the wliite wonder of dear Juliet's hand, 
 And steal immortal blessing from her lips ; 
 Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, 
 
 Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin ; 
 But Romeo may not ; he is banished. 
 
 Flies may do this, when I from this must fly. 
 
 They are free men, but I am banished ? 
 
 And say'st thou yet, that exile is not death ? 
 
 Iladst thou no poison niix'd, no sharji-ground knife. 
 
 No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean. 
 
 But banished to kill me ; banished ? 
 
 O friar, the djunncd use that woi-d in hell ; 
 
 IJowliiigs attend it: How hast thou the heart, 
 
 Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, 
 
 A sin-absolver, and my IViend professd, 
 
 To mangle me, with that word banishment, " 
 
 Again in his character of Lear he has wonderfully depicted pain 
 
 and grief, to a climax of rage and madness. For an example, the 
 
 passage in which the storm is raging on the heath : 
 
 "Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks I rage .' Mow I 
 You cataracts, and hurricanes, spout. 
 Till you have drcnch'd our steeples, drown'tl the cocks ! 
 You sulphurous and thought-executing fires. 
 Vaunl-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder bolts. 
 Singe my wliite head ! and thou, all-shakin<.' thunder. 
 Strike flat the thick rotundity o'er the \Norld ! 
 Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once, 
 That make ungrateful men."
 
 Shakespeare. 155 
 
 "Eumble thy belly full ! Spit, fire ! spout rain ; 
 Nor rain, wind, thunder, tiie. are my daughters : 
 I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness, 
 I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children. 
 Yet owe me no subscription ; why then let fall 
 Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man : 
 But yet I call you servile ministers, 
 That have with two pernicious daughters join'd 
 Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head 
 So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis foul." 
 
 Then again, wliere Hamlet's sceptical views of life, invest him 
 with a strange mysteriousness, we see the poet's own feelings, and 
 nobility of soul, brought forth in sublime philanthrophy and en- 
 thusiasm : 
 
 " To be, or not to be, that is the question : 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
 The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune; 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 And, by opi)Osing, end them? To die, to sleep, 
 
 No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
 
 The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks, 
 
 That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consunnnalion. 
 
 Devoutly to be wishd. To die ; to sleep ; 
 
 To sleep .' perchance to dream ; ay, there's the rub 
 For in that sleep of death wiiat dreams may come, 
 
 When wo have sbuftled off this mortal coil, 
 
 Must give us pause : There's the respect, 
 
 That makes calamity of so long life: 
 
 For who Would bear the whips and scorns of time. 
 
 The oppressor's wrong, the ]iroud man's contumely, 
 
 The pangs of tlespis'd io\c. the law's delay. 
 
 The insolence of oHlce. and the spurns 
 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 
 When he himself might his iiuietus make 
 
 With a bare btxlkin ? wIkj would fardels bear, 
 
 To grunt and sweat imder a weary life ; 
 
 But that the dread of something after ilealh, 
 
 The undiscover'd country, fi'oiu \s lu>se bourne 
 
 No traveller retiun^, pu/./ics the will ; 
 
 And makes us rather jiear tlicc ills wc iiavc, 
 
 Than lly to otlier.-^ that we kimw not of; 
 
 'i'hiis conscience does make eo\\ar<ls of us all 
 
 And thus tlii> unlive hue of resohilion 
 
 As sicklied o'er with the pale ea>t oftlioufiht ; 
 
 And entprjoises oij^reat ]iith and moment. 
 
 With this regard, tlieir current turn away. 
 
 Aiul lose the name o( action.''
 
 156 Shakespeare. 
 
 Shakespeare's characters are as much the objects of meditation, 
 
 as of interest and curiosity. While we are reading the characters 
 
 of Macbeth, Richard or lago, we think not so much of the crimes 
 
 which they commit, as of the ambition, the aspiring spirit, the 
 
 intellectual activity which prompts them to overleap those moral 
 
 fences. To what a state of sublime emotion we are elevated by 
 
 those images of night and horror which Macbeth is made to utter 
 
 that solemn prelude with which he entertains the time till the 
 
 bell shall strike, which is to call him to murder Duncan : 
 
 Banqtto. "How goes the night, boy? 
 
 Fleance. The moon is down ; I have not heard the clock, 
 
 Banqno. And she goes down at twelve. 
 
 Fleance.- I take't 'tis later, sir. 
 
 Banqtio. If old, take my sword, There's husbandry in heaven 
 
 Their candles are all out Take thee that too. 
 
 A heavy summons lies like lead upon me. 
 
 And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers I 
 
 Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 
 
 Gives way to repose I Give me my sword : 
 
 Who's there? 
 Macbeth. A friend. 
 Banqno. What, sir, not yet at rest ? The king's a-bed 
 
 He hath been in unusual pleasure, and 
 
 Sent forth great largess to your officers ; 
 
 This diamond he greets your wife withal, 
 
 ]!y the name of most kind hostess ; and shut up 
 
 In measureless content. 
 Macbeth. Being unprepared, 
 
 Our will became the servant to defect ; 
 Which else should free have wrought. 
 
 Banqno. All's well. 
 
 I dreamt last niglit of the three weird sisters : 
 
 To you they have shew'd some truth. 
 Macbeth. I think not of them : 
 
 Yet, uhen we can entreat an hour to serve, 
 
 Would spend it in some words upon that business, 
 
 If you would grant the time. 
 Banqno. hx your kind'st leisure. 
 Macbeth. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis, 
 
 It shall make honour for you. 
 Banqno. So I lose none. 
 
 In seeking to augment it, but still keep 
 
 My bosom franchised, and allegiance clear, 
 
 I shall be counsell'd, , 
 
 Alacbeth. Good rejjose the while I 
 Banqno. Thanks, sir ; the like to you I
 
 Shakespeare. t57 
 
 Macbeth. - Go, bid my mistress, when my drink is ready, 
 She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed, 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
 The handle towardsmy hand ? Come let me clutch thee: 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but 
 A dagger of the mind ; a false creation, 
 Proceeding from the heat -oppressed brain ? 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As this which now I draw. 
 Thou marshal'st me tlie way that I was going : 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 
 Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still ; 
 And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 
 Which was not so before. There's no such thing : 
 It is the bloody business, which informs 
 Thus to mine eyes, Now o'er tlie one half world. 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 The curtain'd sleej) ; now witchcraft celebrates 
 Pale llecatf's oflerings ; and wither'd murder, 
 Alarum'd, by his sentinel, the wolf. 
 Whose liowi's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design 
 Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm set earth. 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 The very stones prate of my whereabout, 
 And take the present horror from the time. 
 Which ni)W suits with it. Whiles I threat he lives ; 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
 I go, and it is done; tlie bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell, 
 That summons thee to heaven or to hell. " 
 
 Shakespeare hns explained all his characters, too, with terrible 
 vividness. Take for example, the incantations of the witches in 
 Macbeth ; though they are in a great measure grotesque, yet the 
 effect upon is lioth serious and appalling, and we almost feel spell- 
 bound as was Macbeth. We cannot laugh in their presence. As 
 Lamb says, ''we might as well laugh under a consciousness of the 
 principle of evil himself being truly and really present with us.' 
 
 There is the same perfection and beauty in his descriptions. 
 Who but Shakespeare could have given the description uf Dover 
 
 Cliff in " Lear." 
 
 Conic im sir; here's the place : stand still Hnw fearful. 
 And (li//y lis, to cast one eyes so low I
 
 158 Shakespeare 
 
 The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air. 
 Shew scarce so gross as beetles : half way down, 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade ! 
 Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head : 
 The fishermen, that walk upon the beach. 
 Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark, 
 Diminish'd to her cock ; her cock a buoy, 
 Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge. 
 That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes 
 Cannot be heard so high : I'll look no more ; 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong." 
 
 Shakespeare has also beautifully described and represented the 
 
 melody of music and sweet sounds in The Merchant of Venice : 
 
 ' How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the bank ! 
 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 
 Creep in our ears, soft stillness, and the night. 
 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 
 Sit. Jessica : Look, how the floor of heaven 
 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : 
 
 There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 
 Still quiring to the young-ey'd chei'ubims : 
 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls; 
 
 But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
 
 With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear. 
 Jessica. I am never merry, when I hear sweet music. 
 Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd. 
 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
 
 If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
 
 Or any ear of music touch their eai-s. 
 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
 
 Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze. 
 
 By the sweet power of music: Therefore the poet 
 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; 
 
 Since nouglit so stockish. bard, and full of rage, 
 
 But music for the time doth change his nature : 
 
 The man that hath no music in himself 
 
 Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, 
 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night. 
 
 And his affections dark as Erebus : 
 
 Let no such man be trusted. Mark the nuisic.
 
 SJiakespeare. 159 
 
 Por, That light we see, is burning in my hall. 
 
 How far that little candle throws his beams ! 
 
 So shines a good deed in a r.aus;hty world. 
 Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle 
 Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less : 
 
 A substitute shines brightly as a king, 
 
 Until a king be by ; and then his state 
 
 Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 
 
 Into the main of waters. Music I hark ! 
 Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house, 
 Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect; 
 
 Methinks, it sounds much sweeter than by day. 
 Ner, Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam, 
 Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark. 
 
 When neither is attended ; and, I think, 
 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 
 When every goose is c.ickling, would be thought 
 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 
 How many things by season season'd are 
 
 To tlieir right praise and true perfection ! 
 
 Peace, hoa I the moon sleeps with Endymion, 
 
 And would not be awak'd ! " 
 
 Yet even this is not to be compared with the enchantment of 
 Prospero's island in the Te^ipfst. What again can be more 
 beautiful than the poet's description of Sleep, in the soliloquy of 
 Henry IV ? In it the immortal poet has shown the restlessness 
 which often hangs round the thorny pillow of royalty, and prevents 
 the wearied eye of greatness from tasting that sweet and comforta- 
 ble repose, which relieves the unambitious toil of humble industry: 
 
 "How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
 Are at this liour asleep I Sleep, gentle sleep, 
 Nature's soft nurse, liow liave I fri^'htod thee, 
 Tiiat tluiu no more will weigh my eyrjids down, 
 And sleep my senses in forgetfulness? 
 Why rather, sleep, liest tliou in smoky cribs 
 Upon uneasy pMllets slrdohint; thee. 
 And hush'd with buzzing nighl-llies to thy slumbers, 
 Than in the perfumed chamber of the L'l'fat. 
 Undrr tlie canopies of costly state. 
 And lull'd with sounds ol'.sweelrst melody? 
 O thou (hill god, wily liegt thou with the vile 
 In loiithsome be(l!< : and huvVt the kingly couch, 
 A w;it<'h-case, or a common larntn hell? 
 Wilt thou upon the hiirh aiul giddy mast 
 Seal up the ^hip-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge.
 
 160 Shakespeare. 
 
 And in the visitations of the winds, 
 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
 
 Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them. 
 
 With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds. 
 
 That with the hurlj, death itself awakes ? 
 
 Ciin'st thou. O, partial sleep .' give thy repose 
 
 To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude : 
 
 And, in the calmest and most stillest night ; 
 
 With all appliances and means to boot, 
 
 Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down ; 
 
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." 
 
 Or again in his description of flowers in the Winter's Tale. 
 
 /'^r. 'Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend Sirs, 
 For you there's rosemary, and rue ; these keep 
 Seeming, and savour, all the winter long : 
 Grace, and remembrance, be to you both, 
 And welcome to our shearing ! 
 
 Fol. Shepherdess, 
 
 (A lair one are you.) well you fit our ages. 
 With flower of winter. 
 
 Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, 
 
 Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
 
 Of trembling winter,^the fairest flowers o' the season 
 
 Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly flowers, 
 
 Which some call nature's bastards ; of that kind 
 
 Our rustic garden's barren ; and I care nor, 
 
 To get slips of them. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I'll not put 
 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them : 
 Iso more than, were I painted, I would wish 
 This youth should say, 'twere well ; and only therefore 
 Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you 
 Hot lavender, mints savory, marjoram ; 
 The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
 And with him rises weeping, these are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given 
 To men of middle age : You are very welcome. 
 
 Cant. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, 
 And only live by grazing. 
 
 Pei: Our, alas ! 
 
 You'd be as lean, that blasts of January 
 
 Would blow you through and through Now, my fairey 
 
 I would, I had .some flowers ani the spring that might 
 
 Become your time of day ; and yours, and yours ; 
 
 That wear upon your virgin branches yet 
 
 Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina 
 
 For the flowers now, that, freighted, thou let'st fall 
 
 From Dis' waggon IdaiTodils,
 
 Shakespeare. 161 
 
 That come before the swallow dares and take, 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
 Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
 The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack, 
 To make you garlands of ; and, my sweet friend, 
 To strew him o'er and o'er." 
 
 They are so equally balanced as not to disturb or take the place 
 
 of the other. This love of nature of Shakespeare's may also bo 
 
 seen, throughout his whole works. It is exquisitely imparted to 
 
 us in the Forest Scene in As you like it. 
 
 "To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself, 
 Did steal beliiiid him, as ho lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood : 
 To the whicli place a poor sequoster'd stag, 
 That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt. 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, 
 The wretclied animal iicaved fortli such groans, 
 That their discharge did stretch his leatliern coat. 
 Almost to bursting ; and tlie big round tears 
 Coursed one nnotlier down his intiocent nose 
 In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool, 
 Much marked wiiich the melancholy Jaques, 
 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears." 
 
 Or again in the mountain scene in Cymbeline. 
 
 Belariiis. "A goodly day not to keep house, with such 
 Whose roofs as low as ours I Stoop, boys : This gate 
 Instructs you how to adore tlie heavens ; and bows you 
 To morning's holy office : I'lif^ gates of nionarchs 
 Are arch'd so !iiii;h, tliat giants may jet through 
 And korp their impious turbands on, without 
 Good morrow to the sun. Hail, tliou fair heaven I 
 We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so liardly 
 As prouder livers do. 
 
 Giadenus^ WnW, heaven ! 
 
 At-'irai^iis. Ilail, heavi'ii 
 
 Belarius. Now. for our mountain sport : Up to yon hill, 
 Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, 
 Whe!i you above pirccive nie like a crow. 
 Tliat it is plac(> wliich lessens, and sets ofl' 
 And you in;iy then revolve wliat tales I have told you
 
 162 Shakespeare. 
 
 Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war 
 This service is not service, so being done, 
 But being so allow'd : To appreliend thus. 
 Draws us a profit from all things we see : 
 And often, to our comfort, shall we find 
 This sharded beetle in a safer hold. 
 Than is the full wing'd eagle. O this life 
 Is nobler, thnn attending for a cheek ; 
 Is richer than doing nothing for a babe ; 
 Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk : 
 Such gain the cap of him, that makes them fine. 
 Yet keeps his book uncroso'd : No life to our. 
 * * * * 
 
 Ar. What should we speak of, 
 
 When we are old as you? when we shall hear 
 
 The rain and wind beat dark December, how. 
 
 In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
 
 The freezinji hours away? We have seen nothing : 
 
 We are beastly ; subtile as a fox, for prey ; * 
 
 Like warlike as the wolf, for what we cat : 
 
 Our valour is, to chase what flies ; our cage. 
 
 We make a quire, as doth the prison bird. 
 
 And sing our bondage freely. 
 
 * -X- * * * )( 
 
 This twenty years, 
 
 This rock; and these demcones have been my world : 
 
 Where I have liv'd at honest freedom ; paid 
 
 More pious debts to heaven, than in all 
 
 The fore-end of my time.- But, up to the mountains ; 
 
 This is not hunters' language : lie, that strikes 
 
 The venison first, shall be the lord o'the feast ; 
 
 To hnn the other two shall ministeV ; 
 
 And we will fear no poison, which attends 
 
 In place of greater stale. I'll meet you in the valleys. " 
 
 Even in his description of treason and midnight murder, he 
 
 brings in a sweet and rural image. 
 
 "This guest of summer, 
 To temple haunting martlet t does approve 
 By his loved masonry, that heaven's breath 
 Smells wooing by here. N" jutting frieze, 
 Buttress, nor coigne of vaiitiige but this bird 
 Has made his pendent bed and procroant cradle. " 
 
 The same splendid descriptions of natural imagery may be found 
 
 in many other parts of this immortal poet's works. There is the 
 
 same taste exhibited in that proud boast of the bloody Richard:
 
 Shakespeare. 163 
 
 " But I was born bo high : 
 Our very building in the cedar top, 
 And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun!" 
 
 It is this that causes us to admire the exuberant geuius of 
 Shakespeare which alone could find graces and attractions where 
 there seemed to be neither room nor call for them. He brings it 
 again to bear upon stern and repulsive passions, in the cynic 
 rebukes of Apemantus to Simion, 
 
 " Will these nioss'd reds 
 
 That have outlived the eagle page thy heels, 
 
 And skip, when thou poiiit'st out? Will the cold brow 
 
 Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste, 
 
 To cure thy o'ernight's .surfeit?" 
 
 Again in the passionate exaltation of the beauty of Imogen, from 
 one who is even not a lover. 
 
 " 'Tis her breathing that 
 
 Perfumes the cliamhcr thus. "Jhe flame o'the taper 
 
 Bows towards her and uould under ))eep her lids, 
 
 To see the enclosed lights now canopied 
 
 Under those windows, white and azure. 
 
 Laced with blue of heaven's own trick .... 
 
 On her lelt breast 
 
 A mole unique spotted, like the crimson drops 
 I'the bottom of a cow.'-lip 
 
 The beaucies of Shakespeare are not of that type as to be only 
 understood by the learned; his finest passages are those which 
 please all classes of readers. Shakespeare was more full of wis- 
 dom, ridicule, and profundity than all the n.oralists and satirists 
 that ever lived. He wrote out of liimself, a faculty that no other 
 writer, perhaps, ever possessed. He developed the characters of 
 men, but never intruded liimself among them. He is more pathetic 
 and fantastic in his works than any poet in all ages of the world: 
 yet he is so temperate, that no one can accuse him of want of 
 reason, in his characters and descriptions ; but his characters 
 are described with a truth and force that no other poet has ever 
 shown. We have in his Richard III, a picture of cruelty, and 
 envy ; ambitious by nature, fearful to lose his liigh estate, trusting 
 none, generous for a purpose and liaidy to revenge, that tyrant's 
 real character isfiithfiilly and marvcllouslv drawn; while in Henry 
 IV, we see in contrast, his gentle, mild nature, easily persuaded
 
 164 Shakespeare. 
 
 and ready to forgive, careless for wealth, suspecting none and mer- 
 ciful to all. 
 
 The Tempest is one of the most original and perfect of Shakes- 
 peare's productions. It is purely romantic, not relying upon any 
 historical circumstances or events ; it is entirely a birth of the 
 imagination, and addresses itself entirely to that faculty. The 
 character of Ariel has in it everywhere the airy tint from which it 
 is named, and it is admirable that the poet has never brought 
 Miranda in direct comparison with Ariel, lest the natural and 
 human of the one, and the supernatural of the other should tend 
 to neutralize each other. Caliban on the other hand is all earth, 
 all condensed, and grows in feelings and images. Coleridge ob- 
 serves, "he has the dawnings of understanding, without reason or 
 the moral sense ; and in him, as in some brute animals, this ad- 
 vance to the intellectual faculties without the moral sense, is 
 marked by the appearance of vice ; for it is in the primacy of the 
 moral being only, that man is truly human.'' Lamb says, "The 
 character of Caliban is justly thought to be one of the author's 
 
 masterpieces It is one of the wildest and 
 
 most abstracted of all Shakespeare's characters, whose deformity 
 whether of body or mind is redeemed by the power and truth of 
 the imagination displayed in it. It is the essence of grossness, 
 
 but there is not a particle of vulgarity in it It is 
 
 'of the earth, earthy." It seems almost to have been dug out of the 
 ground, with a soul instinctively superadded to it answering to its 
 wants and origin,'' Schlegel remarks in speaking of Caliban, " He 
 never falls into the prosaic and low familiarity 'of his drunken 
 associates, forjheis, in his way a poetical being: he always speaks in 
 verse. " The passage in the Tempest where Caliban is first intro- 
 duced may be read as a fine example of this : 
 
 Cah "'As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd 
 
 With raven's feather from unwholesome fen, 
 
 Drop on you both I a south-west blow on ye, 
 
 And blister you all o'er ! 
 Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thou shall have cramps. 
 
 .Side-stitche< that :-,liall ; en thy breath up ; urchins
 
 Shakespeare. 165 
 
 Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, 
 All exercise on thee : thou shalt be pinch'd 
 As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging 
 Than bees that made them. 
 Cal. I must eat my dinner. 
 
 This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, 
 
 Which thou tak'st from me. When thou camest first. 
 
 Thou strokedst me; and madest much of me, would'stgive me 
 
 Water witli berries in't ; and teach me how 
 
 To name the bigger light, nd how the less, 
 
 That burn by day and night : and then I loved thee, 
 
 And shew'd thee all the qualities o'er the isle, 
 
 The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile ; 
 
 Cursed be I that did so ! All the charms 
 
 Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you ! 
 
 For I am all the subjects ihat you have, 
 
 Which first was mine own king : and liere you sty me 
 
 In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me 
 
 The rest of tlie island. " 
 
 And for a magnificent specimen of the contrast shown by the 
 
 poet between the material and the spiritual, the following melodious 
 
 songs, which Shakespeare has represented as sounding in the air: 
 
 of which Hazlitt says, "without conveying any distinct images, they 
 
 seem to recall all the feelings connected with them, like snatches 
 
 of half-forgotten music, heard distinctly and at intervals : 
 
 Arikl's song. 
 ''Come unto these yellow sands, 
 
 And tlion take hands ; 
 Court'eied when you have, and kiss'd, 
 
 (The wild waves whi.-^t,) 
 Foot it featly liere and there ; 
 And, swc'l siirites. the Inirden bear. 
 Hark, ILirk ! 
 
 Uo\\ , W( IW. 
 
 Thp watch (h)y>-bark : 
 Bow, wow. 
 llai-k, hai-k I 1 licar 
 Tlie strains of stiiiiting chanticleer. 
 
 Cry, Cock-.v.h.odlc-d.i." 
 
 Fcr. "Where shou]<l tliis music l)e ? 'i'thc air or the earth? 
 It sniinds no more: and, suix', it wails upon 
 Sonie l;o<1 of Ihr island, Sitting on a Inink, 
 Wecpini; again tht- king niy father's wrL\k. 
 'J'his niu^ic cti');! liy nic u]ion the waters; 
 -\llaying l>oth their hny, and my jiassion. 
 Willi il's sweet .lii : lliciioe I li.i\o folhiw'd it,
 
 166 Shakespeare^ 
 
 Or it hath drawn me rather : But 'tis gone. 
 No, it begins again. " 
 
 Ariel sings. 
 "Full fathom five my father lies ; 
 
 Of his bones are coral made; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange, 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
 Hark I now I hear them, Ding-Dong, Bell." 
 
 I cannot pass over the Tempest without quoting the two beauti- 
 fuU passages, the first where the vision conjured up by Prospero 
 disappears, and he resolves to bury fathoms deep his rod and books 
 of power. In this we see Shakespeare's times again before us, when 
 first the interest of the New World began so powerfully to arouse the 
 imagination and the energies of the English people : and as the 
 Old World associations resumed their sway, the spell which en- 
 tranced them was broken, and as we read in the "Tempest," the 
 receding island is left lonely and disenchanted. 
 
 "You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort, 
 As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, Sir : 
 Our revels now are ended : these our actors, 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air : 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision. 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces. 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherits, shall dissolve ; 
 And. like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a v.-reck behind : We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 The other, is the address Prospero makes in abjuring his art : 
 
 "Ve elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; 
 And ye, that on the sands with prinlless foot 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do flv him, 
 When he comes back ; you demi-puppets, thai 
 By moon-shine do the green-sour ringlets mnke, 
 Whereof the ewe not bites ; aTid you, wliosc pastime 
 Is to make midnight-mushrooms ; that rejoice 
 To hear the solemn curfew : by whose aid 
 (Weak masters thouf,'h you be,) I have bedimm"d 
 The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
 
 Shakespeare. 167 
 
 As 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault 
 
 Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder 
 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
 
 With his own bolt : the strong-bas'd promontory 
 
 Have I made shake ; and by the spurs pluck'd up 
 
 The pine, and cedars: graves at my commaiid. 
 
 Have waked their sleepers ; oped, and let them forth 
 
 By my so potent art: But this rougli magic 
 
 I here abjure : and, when I have required 
 
 Some heavenly music, (which even now I do,) 
 
 To work my end upon their senses, that 
 
 This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, 
 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
 
 And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 
 I'll drown my book." Solemn music. 
 
 There is the same mysterious beauty, and extraordinary powers 
 
 of imagination to be seen in the Midsjcimner Niohfs Dream, yet 
 
 we see the same profound view of the inward life of Nature and 
 
 her mysterious springs. Puck, in a different type, is the "Ariel" 
 
 of the Tempest. The scene between Puck and the Fairy, where he 
 
 gives an account of himself and his employments, and Titania's 
 
 dispute with Oberon about the Indian boy, I may quote it as 
 
 beautiful examples of this play : 
 
 Puck. "How now, spirit, whither wander you? 
 Fahy. Over hill, over dale, 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
 Over park, over pale. 
 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 I do wander every where. 
 Swifter than the moones sphere ; 
 
 And I serve the fairy quoen. 
 
 To dew her orbs upon the green : 
 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
 
 Iti their gold coats; spots you see 
 
 Those be rubies fairy favours. 
 
 In those freckles live thoir savours : 
 I must go seek some dew-drops here. 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
 Farewell, thou l(,>b of spii-its. I'll be gone ; 
 Our quei^n and all our elves conic here anon. 
 Puck. The king doth keep his revels here to-night. 
 Take hee<l, the queen cunie not within his sight. 
 For Oberon is ]i;issing fell antl wralli 
 Because that she. as lier attendant, hath 
 A lovely boy stolen from an Indi:in king ; 
 She never had so sweet a changeling:
 
 168 Shakespeare. 
 
 And jealous Oberon would have the child 
 
 Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild : 
 
 But she, perforce, withholds the lovely boy, 
 
 CrcTns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy: 
 
 And now they never meet in grove, or green, 
 
 By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen. 
 
 But they do square ; that all their elves, for fear. 
 
 Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there. 
 Fairy. Eitlier I mistake your shape and making quite, 
 
 Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite, 
 
 Call'd liobin Good fellow : are you not he. 
 
 That fright the maidens of the villagery ; 
 
 Skim milk ; and sometimes labour in the quern, 
 
 And bootless make the breathless house wife churn ; 
 
 And sometimes make the drink to bear no barm ; 
 
 Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ! 
 
 Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck. 
 
 You do their work, and they shall have good luck . 
 
 Are not you he ? 
 Puck. Thou speak'st aright : 
 
 I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
 
 I jest to Oberon. and make him smile, 
 
 When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, 
 
 Neighing in likeness of a filly foal : 
 
 And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl, 
 
 In very likeness of a roasted crab ; 
 
 And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob. 
 
 And on her wither'd dew-lap pour tlie ale. 
 
 The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale. 
 
 Sometimes for tln-ee-foot stool inistaketh me ; 
 
 Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, 
 
 And tailor cries, and falls into a cough ; 
 
 And then the whole quire hold their hips, and loffe : 
 
 And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear 
 
 A merrier hour was never wasted there, 
 
 But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon. 
 fairy. And here my mistress. Would that he were gone !'' 
 
 The character of Lear is another of Shakespeare's marvellous 
 
 conceptions. Never was the passions of man represented with such 
 
 power and force. I could not quote a better authority than Hazlitt, 
 
 when he says," the mind of Lear staggering between the weight of 
 
 attachment, and the hurried movements of passion, is like a tall ship 
 
 driven about by the winds, buffeted by the furious winds, but that 
 
 still rides above the storm, having its anchor fixed in the bottom 
 
 of the sea ; or it is like the sharp rock circled by the eddying 
 
 whirlpool, that foams and beats against it, or like the solid prom-
 
 Shakespeare. 169 
 
 ontory pushed from its basis by the force of an earthquake." 
 
 The first burst of that noble tide ofpassion is in the remonstrance 
 of Kent to his royal master, on the injustice of his sentence against 
 his youngest daughter : 
 
 Lear. "Peace, Kent ! 
 
 Gome not between the dragon and his wrath : 
 
 I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest 
 
 On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight ! 
 
 So be my grave my peace, as here I give 
 
 Her fill hers heart from her I Call France; Who stirs? 
 
 Call Burgundy, Cornwall, and Albany, 
 
 With my two daughters' dowers digest this third : 
 
 Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. 
 
 I do invest you jointly with my power. 
 
 Pre-eminence, and all the large ellVcts 
 
 That troop with majesty. Ourseit, by monthly course, 
 
 With reservation of a hundred knights, 
 
 By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode 
 
 Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain 
 
 The name, and all the additions to a king ; 
 
 The sway. 
 
 Revenue, execution of the rest, 
 
 Beloved sons, be yours : which to confirm. 
 
 This coronet part between you. 
 
 Kent. Royal Lear, 
 
 Whom I have ever honourd as my king, 
 
 Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd. 
 
 As my great patron thought on in my prayet-s, 
 
 Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make IVom the shaft. 
 
 Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade 
 The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly, 
 W'hon Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do. did man ? 
 Tliink'st thou, that duty .^hall have dread to speak, 
 When powei- to llattery liows ? To plainness Jionour's bound 
 Wlien maje.'^ty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom 
 And, in Ihy best consideration, chock 
 This hideous rashness : answer my life, my judgment 
 Thy youngest daughter does not love ihee least ; 
 Nor arc those iMupty-hcai'ted, whose low sound 
 Reverbs no liollowness. 
 
 Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 
 
 Kent. My lil'c I never held \<\\\ as a pawn 
 
 To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it. 
 Thy salety bcini; tli" motive. 
 
 Lear. Out of my sight 1 
 
 Kent. See belter. I.enr ; aiid let me still i-enmin 
 The true blank ()f thine eye. 
 
 /(I/;-. Now. by Apollo. 
 
 w
 
 170 Shakespeare. 
 
 Kent. Now, by Apollo, king, 
 
 Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. 
 Lear. O, vassal ! mispieant ! {^Laying his hand on his nvord.) 
 Alb. and Corn. Dear Sir, forbear. 
 Kent.Y>o ; 
 
 Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow 
 
 Upon the foul disease, Eevoke thy gift ; 
 
 Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, 
 
 I'll tell thee, thou dost evil. 
 Lear. Hear me, recreant ! 
 "* On thine allegiance hear me I 
 
 Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, 
 
 (Which we durst never yet.) and, witii strnin'd pride, 
 
 To come betwixt our sentence and our power; 
 
 (Which nor our nature nor our place can bear.) 
 
 Our potency make good, take thy reward. 
 
 Five days we do allot thee, for provision 
 
 To shield thee from diseases of the world ; 
 
 And, on the .sixth, to turn thy hnted back 
 
 Upon our kingdom : if. on (lie tenth day iblhiwing, 
 
 Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions. 
 
 The moment is thy death : Away I by Jupiter. 
 
 This shall not be revok'd. 
 Kent, Fare thee well, king: since thus thou wilt appear. 
 
 Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. 
 
 The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid. 
 
 That justly think'st, aTid hast most rightly said I 
 
 And your large speeches may your deeds approve. 
 
 That good effects may spi-ing tVom woi-ds of love, 
 
 Thus Kent. O princes, bids you all adieu ; 
 
 He'll .shape his old course iu a country new." 
 
 Othello is another striking instance of this astonishing exempli- 
 fication of passion its pauses and feverish starts, and then its 
 accumulating force. \Vc see the impetuous passions, and unsus- 
 pecting frankness of the Moor exasperated by the artful dexterity 
 of lago, until we are filled with almost terror and pity. For instance, 
 when lago first begins to practise upon Othello's unsuspecting 
 friendship, he replies : 
 
 " Why ? why is this? 
 Think'st thou. I'd make a life of jealousy, 
 ^J'd follow still the changes of the moon 
 With fresh Enspiciuiis ? jVo : to be once in doubt, 
 Is -once to be resolv'd : l'"xchange me for a goat, 
 When T shall turn the business of my soul 
 To such exsufflicate and Ijlown surmises, 
 Matching tliy iufei-enoe. "Fis not to make me jealous. 
 To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company.
 
 Shakespeare. 171 
 
 Is free of speech, sings, plajs, and dances well ; 
 
 Where virtue is, there are more virtuous : 
 
 Nor from mine own weak merits will 1 draw 
 
 The smallest fear, or doubt, of her revolt ; 
 
 For she had eyes, and chose me : No, lago ; 
 
 I'll see, before I doubt ; when I doubt, prove ; 
 
 And, on the proof, there is no more but this, 
 
 Away at once with love, or jealousy. 
 
 * -if- * * 
 
 Never, lago. Like to the Pontic sea, 
 
 Whose icy current and compulsive course 
 Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on 
 To the Propontic. and the Hellespont ; 
 
 Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, 
 Siiall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love. 
 Till that a capable and wide revenge 
 Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven. 
 In the due reverence of a sacred vow 
 I here engage my words. 
 lago. Do not rise yet. 
 
 Witness, you ever-liurning lights above ! 
 You elements that clip us round about! 
 Witness, that here lago doth give up 
 'J'lie execution of liis wit, hands, heart, 
 To wrong'd Othello's service I let him command, 
 And to obey sliall be in me remorse. 
 What bloody work soever. 
 Othello. \ gre.t'thy love, 
 
 Not wiih vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous. 
 And will ii]ion the instant put thee to 't : 
 Williin these three days let me hear thee say, 
 'J'iiat Cassio's not alive. 
 logo. My friend is dead ; 'tis done, at your request : 
 
 But let her live. 
 Othello. Damn her, lewd minx ! O, damn her ! 
 Come, go with nie apart ; I will withdi-aw. 
 To furnish me with onie swift means of death 
 For the fair devil. Now ai't thou my lieutenant. 
 lago. -I am, your own f)i- ever." 
 
 And again in Othello's exclamation in the fourth act during his 
 
 interview with Dcsdcmona, his noble spirit is thrown up in the 
 
 most vivid langua;4c : 
 
 "Had it pli'as'd heaven 
 To try me willi alllielion; had he rain'd 
 All kinds of sores, and .sjianies, on niv bare head; 
 Steep'd m(> in poverty to the y<!r\- lips; 
 Given to ea]itivity me and my utmost hopes; 
 I should have louiid in some {)art of my soul
 
 172 _ Shakespeare. 
 
 A drop of patience : but (alas !) to make me 
 
 A fixed fiiiure, for the time of sci^rn 
 
 'J'o point liis slow iinmoving finger at. 
 
 O! o: 
 
 Yet could I bear that too : well, very well 
 
 But there, where 1 have garner'd up my heart ; 
 
 V\'here either I must live, or bear no life ; 
 
 The fountain from the which my current runs, 
 
 Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence ! 
 
 Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads 
 
 To knot and gendt-r in ! turn thy complexion there ! 
 
 Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubim ; 
 
 Ay, there, look grim as hell I" 
 
 In these passages we see the frankRcss and generosity of Othello's 
 nature, which moves us to sympathy and compassion for his fate. 
 We can see his noble and generous character gradually goaded on 
 by passion, till his love and confidence turn into the madness of 
 hatred ; and we see his revenge increasing in strength day by day, 
 under the malicious suggestions of lago. And at last his remorse 
 is shown to us as dreadful as his revenge had been; particularly in 
 his farewell speech before he kills liimself : 
 
 'Soft you ; a word or two, before you go, 
 I have done the state some service, and they know it ; 
 No more of that : I pray you. in your k-ttors, 
 When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 
 Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate. 
 Nor sf't down aught in malice : then must speak 
 Of one, that lov'd not wi.^ely, but too well ; 
 Of one, not easily jealous, but, being wrought. 
 Perplex'd in the extreme ; of one, wliose hand. 
 Like the base Judean, tlirew a pearl away. 
 Richer than all his tribe; of one, whose subdu'd eye.s, 
 Albeit unused to the melting mood. 
 Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 
 Their medicinal gum : Set you down this: 
 And say, beside.s, that in Aleppo once. 
 Where a malignant and a tui-ban'd ^J'urk 
 Beat a VenetiMU, and tradue'd tlie state. 
 I took by the throat the circumcis^'d dog. 
 And smote him thus."' {Slabs hiinst'!/.) 
 
 Shakespeare's play oi Macbt'tJi, like Othello aud Lear, is charac- 
 teristic throughout of the inner feelings, and just as Lear stands 
 first for the profundity of his passion, and Othello for an intensity
 
 Shakespeare. 173 
 
 of vindictiveness, so Macbeth for the excessive wildness of his 
 imagination and impulsiveness of action. It is by this we see the 
 overpowering genius of Shakespeare to that of his contemporaries. 
 All his representations of the passions, either good or evil, are 
 brought home to us as a part of our experience. He exhibits the 
 same means of supernatural agency, over human passion ; and we 
 see Macbeth hurried on with daring impatience to verify the pre- 
 diction of the W^Z/t/i^j-, anxious with impious and bloody hand to 
 tear aside the veil which hides the uncertainty of the future. He 
 rushes blindly forward, bent only on the objects of his ambition 
 and revenge ; sometimes cowed and overpowered by his conscience, 
 and abashed with his success ; then encouraged by the firmness of 
 his wife, who holds determinedly to her object, until we shudder at 
 her wickedness. We see her goading him on with wily taunts, to 
 the accomplishment of her great end, till Macbeth is at last over- 
 powered by her commanding presence of mind and inexorable 
 self-will : 
 
 " Art thou afear'd 
 
 To be the sairio in thine own act and valour 
 
 As thou art in dpsire ? Wouldst thou have that 
 
 Wliich thou pstcpni'st the ornament of life, 
 
 And live a coward in thj own esteem ; 
 
 Letting I dare not wait upon I would. 
 
 Like the poor cat i' the adage." 
 
 And in his reply we behold a mixture of manly thought and feeling, 
 which in spite of his crimes lead our minds to a pitch of admiration. 
 
 "Pr'ythee, peace : 
 
 / dart' do all that may become a man : 
 117/0 dares do more, is no//e. " 
 
 And then we have again the same grand and striking picture of 
 
 remorse, after the murder has been perpetrated, thrown up in the 
 
 poet's same vivid and unsurpassed language. 
 
 Macbeth. "'J'here's one did iaugli m Iiin sleej), and one cried, Murder ! 
 
 Tliat they did wake each oUier ; I stood and heard them: 
 
 But tiiey did say their prayers, and address'd tliem 
 
 Again to sleej). 
 l.adv M. Tliere iiro two lodi^'d together. 
 Mac Owe cried, (!od bless us! and Amen, the other ; 
 
 A8 they had seen me with these liangnian's hands.
 
 174 Shakespeare. 
 
 Listening their fear, I could not say, Amen, 
 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 
 Mac. But wherefore could not 1 pronounce, Amen ? 
 
 I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 Lady vT/.^These deeds must not be thought 
 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
 Mac, Methoughtj I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more ! 
 
 Macbeth does murder sleep, the i7tnocent sleep ; 
 
 Sleep, that hints up the ravelPd sleei^e of care. 
 
 The death of each day's life, sore labour s bath, 
 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. 
 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast; 
 iMdy M. What do you mean ? 
 Mac. Still it cried, Sleep no more ! to all the house: 
 
 Glamis hath murder' d sleep, and therefore Cawdor 
 
 Shall sleep no tnore, Macbeth shall sleep no ntoj'e. " 
 
 There is the same extraordinary and powerful delineation 
 of the evil passions of man, in Richard IIL only as distinct in 
 character from Othello and Macbeth as it is possible to conceive. 
 Richard's character is naturally cruel ; from his birth he is deformed 
 in mind and body. His crimes are the result of violent temper, 
 and love of mischief ; he revels and rejoices in his evil deeds; and 
 we see him, as a hardened tyrant, serving only his own ends, work- 
 ing only to secure them, and making the periods of bloodshed, his 
 holidays. We have no sympathy for him; even in his very last 
 extremity we think of him only as a "wild beast taken in his toils. " 
 The courtship scene with Lady Anne exhibits finely Richard's 
 smooth and smiling villany, as like the first Tempter he craftily 
 approaches his prey : 
 
 Gloster. " But, gentle lady Anne, 
 
 To leave this keen encounter of our wits, 
 
 And fall somewhat, into a slower method; 
 
 Is not the causer of the timeless deaths 
 
 Of these Flantagenets, Henry and Edward, 
 
 As blameful as the executioner? 
 Anne, Thou wast the cause, and most accurs'd effect. 
 Glo. Your beauty was the cause of tliat effect; 
 
 Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep. 
 
 To undei-take tlie deatli of all the world. 
 
 So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom, 
 Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, 
 
 These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks,
 
 Shakespeare. 176 
 
 Glo. These eyes could not endure that beMuty's wreck, 
 You should not blemish it, if" I stood by ; 
 As all the world is cheered by the sun, 
 So I by that ; it is my day, my life. 
 
 Anne. Black night o'ershnde thy day, and death thy life! 
 
 Glo. Curse not thy.seU', (air creature; thou art both. 
 
 Anne. I would I were, to be reveng'd on thee. 
 
 Glo. It is a quarrel most unnatural, 
 
 To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee. 
 
 Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, 
 
 To be reveng'd on him that kill'd my husband. 
 
 Glo. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, 
 Did it to help thee to a better husband. 
 
 Anne.--\\'\^ better doth not breathe upon the earth, 
 
 Glo. He lives, that loves you better than he could. 
 
 Anne. Name him. 
 
 Glo. Plantagenet. 
 
 Anne. Why, that was he. 
 
 Glo. The self-same name, but one of better nature. 
 
 Anne. \\ here is he ? 
 
 Glo. Here : (she spits at him) Why dost thou spit at me? 
 
 Anne. "Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake ! 
 
 Glo. Never came pnison from so sweet a place, 
 
 Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. 
 
 Out of my sight I tliou d<ist infect mine eyes. 
 
 Glo. Tiiine eyes, sweet lady, have infected tnine. 
 
 Anne. "Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead I 
 
 Glo. I would they were, that I might die at once ; 
 For now they kill me with a living death. 
 Those eyes uf thine from mine have drawn salt tears. 
 Shamed tlieir aspi'ets witii slore of ehildisli drops: 
 These eves, which never shed remorseful tear, 
 ^.ot. when my father York and Edward wept, 
 I'o hear the ])iteiius moan tiiat JIutland made, 
 \\ lien black-fac'd Cliiford shook his sword at him: 
 Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, 
 'I'old the sad story of my father's death : 
 And twenty times made jiause. to .-oh, and weep, 
 That ;iU till' >lan(lers-t)y liad wet tlieir clieeks. 
 Like trees fxdasli'd with rain : in that sad time, 
 My maidy eyes did scorn an humble tear: 
 And what these sorrows <'oiild not thence exhale. 
 'J'hy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. 
 J never eu'd to friend, nor enemy : 
 My tongue could never learn sweet soothing word ; 
 l]ut now thy hcanty is proposed my t"ee, 
 My i)roud heart sues, and prompts my toirjjue to speak. 
 
 ( .She looks s.ornfiillv i:t hiin j 
 Teach not thy lip such scorn ; for it was made 
 For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
 
 176 Shakespeare. 
 
 If thy revengeful heart cannot forgiA-e, 
 
 Lo ! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword 
 
 Which if thou please to hide in this true breast, 
 
 And let the soul forth that adnrelh thee, 
 
 I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, 
 
 And humbly beg the death upon my knee. 
 
 (He lays his breast open ; she offers at it with his szvord.) 
 
 Nay, do not pause; for I did kill king Henry; 
 
 But 'twas thy beauty that provoked nie. 
 
 Nay, now despatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward; 
 (She again offers at his breast.) 
 
 But 'twas thy heavenly face that set nie on. 
 
 (She lets fall the sword.) 
 
 Take up the sword again, or take up me. 
 Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, 
 
 I will not be thy executioner, 
 Glo. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. 
 Anne. I have already. 
 C/^. That was in a rage: 
 
 Speak it again, and, even with the word, 
 
 This hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love, 
 
 Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love; 
 
 To both their deaths shalt thou be accessory, 
 Atine. I would, I knew thy heart. 
 Glo, 'Tis figured in my tongue. 
 Anne. I fear me, both are false. 
 Glo. Then man was never true, 
 Anne. Well, well, put >ip your sword, 
 G/(3. Say then, my peace is made. 
 Anne. That shall you know hereafter. 
 Glo. But shall I live in hope? 
 Anne. All men, I hope, live so. 
 Glo. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. 
 Anne. To take, is not to give. 
 
 (She puts on the ring.) 
 Glo. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger. 
 
 Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; 
 
 Wear both of them, for both ot them are thine. 
 
 And if thy poor devoted servant may 
 
 But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, 
 
 Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. 
 Anne. What is it? 
 C^/^. That it may please you, leave these sad designs 
 
 To him that hath more causes (o be a mourner. 
 
 And presently repair to Crosby-place ; 
 
 Where after 1 liave solemnly interr'd. 
 
 At Chertfeey monast'ry, this noble king. 
 
 And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 
 
 I will with all expedient duty see you :
 
 Shakespeare. Vl*l 
 
 For divers unknown reasons, I beseecb you, 
 
 Q-ranK ma this boon. 
 Ann;. With all my b3art, and m!i(3h it joys ra? too, 
 
 To 863 you are bocomD so penitent. 
 
 Ti-essol and B^rke'.ey, go along with me, 
 Glo. Bid me farewoll. 
 Anne. 'Tis more than you deserve, 
 
 But, sinc3 you teaoh m3 how to flitter you, 
 
 Imagine I have said farewell already." 
 
 There are many magnificent passages in this play, perhaps the 
 two finest of which are, the dream of Clarence, and the description 
 given by Tyrell of the death of the children in the Tower. The 
 former runs thus, 
 
 Brak. "Why lool<8 your grace so heavily to-day ? 
 Clar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, 
 
 So full of fearfid dreams, of \\^\y sights, 
 
 That, as I am a Christian faitliful man, 
 
 I would not spend anotlier such a nigiit, 
 
 Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; 
 
 So full of dismal terror was the tiiuf. 
 Brak. What was your dreaui, my lord ? I pray you, tell me 
 Clar. Methought, t iiat I liad broken from the Tower, 
 
 And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy ; 
 
 And, in my company, my brother Gioster: 
 
 Wiiofrom my cabin tempt,cd mo to walk 
 
 Upon the iiatclies ; tlionco we look'd toward England, 
 
 And cited up a thousand heavy limes, 
 
 During the wars of York and Lancister 
 
 That had bef^lTn us. As we ]iae'd along 
 
 Upon t])e nriddy foutiiig of (he iialeiies, 
 
 Metliought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling, 
 
 Struck me, that thoughl to sliiy hitn, over-board, 
 
 Info the tumbling billows of the main. 
 
 O Lord ! meihoughf, what ])ain it was to drown ! 
 
 What dreadful noise of water in mine e.ars ! 
 
 What sights of u;i;ly dealh within mine eyes ! 
 
 Mcthought, T saw a thousand fe:ir(id wrecks; 
 
 A thousand men that fishes gnaw'tl upon ; 
 
 WedL'Cs of gold, gi'eat anchors, heaps of pearl, 
 
 Inestiiuable atone-i, unvalued jewels. 
 
 All scattered in the bottom of llie s^a. 
 
 Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and. in tho'se holes 
 
 Where eyes cliil once inhihil., there were crept 
 
 (As 'twero in seoiai of eyes,) refl^'cling gems, 
 
 That woo'd the slimy bottom of the d'ep, 
 
 And mock'd the de.ad bones that lav scatler'd bv. 
 Brak. Ha 1 you such leisure in the time of death
 
 178 Shakespeare. 
 
 To giize upon these secrets of the deep? 
 Clar. Methought I had; and often did I striye 
 
 To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood 
 
 Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
 
 To seek the empty, vast, and waTid'ring air ; 
 
 But smother'd it within my panting bulk, 
 
 Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 
 Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony ? 
 Clar.^ O, no, iriy di'eam was lengthen'd after life ; 
 
 O, then began the tempest to my soul ! 
 
 I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, 
 
 With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
 
 Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 
 
 The first tliat tliere did greet my stranger soul, 
 
 Was my gi-eat father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 
 
 Who cried aloud, What scoitrge for pei-jtiry 
 
 Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ] 
 
 And so he vanish'd : Then came wand'ring by 
 
 A shadow like an angt^l. with briglit hair 
 
 Dabbled in blood ; and he shri^k'd out aloud, 
 
 Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjurd Clarence, - 
 
 That stablid me in a field by Tewksbury : 
 
 Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments ! 
 
 With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
 
 Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears 
 
 Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 
 
 I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after. 
 
 Could not believe but that I was in hell ; 
 
 Such terrible impression made my dream. " 
 
 The other is Tyrell's account of the children's death, in the 
 
 Tower : 
 
 "The tyrannous and bloody act is done ; 
 The most arch deed of piteous massacre. 
 That ever yet this land was guilty of, 
 Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn 
 To do this piece of ruthless butchery, 
 Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs. 
 Melting with tenderness and mild comi^assion, 
 Wept like two children, in their deatli's sad story. 
 thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes. 
 Thus, thus, quotli Forrest, girdling one another 
 Within their alabaster innocent arms : 
 Their lips ivere four red roses on a stalk. 
 Which, in their summer beauty, kiss' d each other. 
 A book ofpraye/s on their pilloT.ii lay: 
 Which once, quoth I'^orrest, almost changed mv mind; 
 But, 0, the devil tliere the villian stopped ; 
 When Dighton thus told on, -ive smotlierei/ 
 The most replenislted sweet i.'ork of nature.
 
 Shakespeare. 179 
 
 That, from the prime creation, e^er she f rani d, 
 Hence both are gone; with conscience and remorse, 
 They could not speak ; and so I left them both, 
 To bear this tidings to the bloody king."' 
 
 The play of Hamlet is entirely different in style to those of 
 
 Othello f Lear, Macbeth, and Richard III. Of Shakespeare's plays, 
 
 it is one of the most popular and most thought of. It is the most 
 
 naturally written and original. The passages are not exhibited as 
 
 in his other plays; they were not written for the motive of the play, 
 
 but are suggested by the other scenes as they occur ; the characters 
 
 speak as they would if they were left entirely to themselves, they 
 
 are not forced or strained. I would not attempt to pass a comment 
 
 upon this play, so I will pass on, by merely quoting what appears 
 
 to me the finest passage; it is that in which Hamlet attempts to 
 
 reason with his own weakness: 
 
 "How all occasions do inform against me. 
 And spur my dull revenge ! \Vliat is a man, 
 If his chief good, and market of his time 
 Be but to sleep and feed ? a beast, no more. 
 Sure, he, that made us with such large discourse, 
 Looking before, and after, gave us not 
 That capability and godlike reason 
 To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be 
 Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
 Of tliinking too precisely on the event, 
 A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom. 
 And, ever, three parts coward, I do not know 
 Wliy yet I live to say. This thing s to do ; 
 Since I have cause, and will, and strength, and means 
 To do't. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me : 
 Witness, this army of such mass, and charge, 
 Led by a delicate and tender i rince ; 
 Whose spirit with divine ambition puft'd. 
 Makes mouths at the invisible event ; 
 Exposing what is mortal, and unsure. 
 To all that fortune, death, and danger, dare, 
 Even for an egg-shell. Kightly to be great, 
 Is, not to stir w ithout great argument ; 
 But greatly to fmd Cjuarrel in a straw. 
 When honour's at the stake. How stand I then, 
 That have a father kiU'd, a mother stain'd, 
 Excitements of my reason and my blood, 
 And let all sleep ? while, to my shame, I see 
 Tlie imminent death of twenty thousand men, 
 That, for a fantasy, and trick of fame,
 
 180 Shakespeare. 
 
 Go to their graves like beds ; fight for a plot 
 Whereon the minibers cannot try the cause, 
 Which is not tomb enough, and continent, 
 To hide the slain ? O, from 'his time forth 
 My thou{ihts be bloody, or be nothing worth !" 
 
 In reading Richard II. our passions are little moved : we can 
 
 only sympathise with the king's want of resolution, and pity his 
 
 weakness. His character from first to last shows him falling under 
 
 the superior weight of BoHngbroke's genius ; meeting stroke after 
 
 stroke of ill fortune, and goaded with insults which he has neither 
 
 courage nor principle to withstand. Finely as this character is 
 
 exhibited throughout the whole play, Richard /I. dots not come 
 
 near in beauty to any of those already mentioned. Perhaps the 
 
 finest passage in it, is that in which Mowbray complains of his 
 
 banishment. The language is overflowing with beauty : 
 
 "A heavy sentence, my most sovereij^n liege, 
 And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth : 
 A dearer merit, not so deep a maim 
 As to be cast forth in the common air, 
 Have I deserved at your highness' hand. 
 The language T have learn'd these fcn-ty years, 
 My nHtivo jilnglish, now I must forego: 
 And now my tongue's use is to me no more 
 Than an unstringed viol or a harp; 
 Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up, 
 Or, being open, put into his hands 
 'I'hat knows no touch to tune the harmony : 
 Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, 
 Doubly portCiillis'd, with my teeth and lips ; 
 And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance 
 Is made my gaoler to attend on me. 
 I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, 
 Too far in years to be a pupil now ; 
 What is thy sentence then, but ."speechless death. 
 Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? " 
 
 Of the adn.ired love siorx oi RoiiiiO and Jnlict, I need not speak; 
 
 every one is acquainted with it. It is full of romantic feeling, and 
 
 poetical tenderness, with out being sickly or sentimental. Their love 
 
 is a passion, not a sickness ; and the whole is thrown out in the 
 
 language of a Shakespeare only. It is like the rest of his plays, a 
 
 picture of purely human life. In it we have shown to us, all the 
 
 novelty and rapture of youthful passion, when the heart is first
 
 Shakespeare. 181 
 
 melted into tenderness and knows no end of its joys or its wishes. 
 Hazlitt has excellently and correctly described this play in the fol- 
 lowing words, " Shakespeare has given a picture of human life, 
 such as it is in the order of nature. He has founded the passions 
 of the two lovers, not on the pleasantness they had experienced, but 
 on all the pleasures they had not experienced. All that was to 
 come of life was theirs. At that untried source of promised hap- 
 piness they slaked their thirst, and the first eager draught made 
 them drunk with love and joy. They were in full possession of 
 their senses and affections. Their hopes were of air; their desires 
 of fire,"* There are many fine passages in this play. The soli- 
 loquy of Juliet after her marriage with Romeo, is magnificent : 
 
 Juliet. "Gnllop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, 
 Towards Plioebus' marifion ; such a waggoner, 
 As PliKton would wliip you to the west, 
 And bring in cloudy night immediately. 
 Spread tliy close curtain, love-perfoiming night ! 
 1'hat run-away's eyes may wink ; and Romeo 
 Leap to these arins, untnlic'd of, and unseen ! 
 Lovers can see to do their amorous rites 
 By their own beauties: or, if love be blind, 
 It bpst agrees with night. Come, civil night. 
 Thou sober-suited matron, all in black. 
 And learn me how to lose a winning match, 
 Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenlioods: 
 Hood my unmann'd blood l)ating in my cheeks. 
 With thy black mantle ; till strange love, grown bold, 
 Think true love acted, simple modesty. 
 Come, night ! Come, Romeo ! come, thou day in night 
 For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night 
 Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. 
 Come, gentle night ; come, hiving, black-brow'd night , 
 Give me my Romeo : and, when ho shall die. 
 Take him and cut him out in little stars, 
 And he will make the face of heaven so fine, 
 That all the world will be in love with night, 
 And pay no worship to the garish sun. 
 O, I have bought the mansion of a love, 
 But not posscss'd it ; and, though I am sold. 
 Not yet enjoy'd : .So tedious is this day. 
 As is the night b'Torc some festival 
 To an imp.aticnt child, that hath new robes, 
 And may not wear them." 
 Or the still more beautiful passage ofthc parting between Romeo 
 
 Sliakc-peare's Characlers."
 
 182 Shakespeare. 
 
 and Juliet in the Third Act : 
 
 Juliet. "Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day: 
 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
 
 That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
 
 Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : 
 
 Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 
 Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 
 
 No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks 
 
 Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : 
 
 Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops ; 
 
 I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 
 Juliet. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I : 
 
 It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
 
 To be to thee this night a torch-bearer. 
 
 And light thee on thy way to Mantua : 
 
 Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone. 
 Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death; 
 
 I am content, as thou wilt have it so, 
 
 I'll say, yon grey is not the morning's eye, 
 
 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; 
 
 Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat, 
 
 The vaulty heaven so high above our heads : 
 
 I have more care to stay, than will to go ; 
 
 Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so. 
 
 How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not dny, 
 fuliet. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away ; 
 
 It is the lark that sings so out of tune. 
 
 Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. 
 
 Some say, the lark makes sweet division ; 
 
 This doth not so, for she divideth us : 
 
 Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes ; 
 
 O, now I would they had chang'd voices too ! 
 
 Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, 
 
 Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day. 
 
 O, now be gone ; more light and light it grows, 
 Romeo . More light and light? more dark and dark our woes." 
 
 There is the same intensity of feeling manifested in Shakespeare's 
 Timon oj Athens the same reality and earnestness, with that 
 glowing depth of passion peculiar only to this great man. In the 
 transition of Timon from pomp and splendour to the most abject 
 state of Hfe, cut off from all social intercourse, we seem to realize 
 his painful position; but our admiration for him is none the less. 
 Indeed we admire him the more, when we see him exposed like a 
 wild animal in the forest, digging roots from the earth for bare ex- 
 istence :
 
 Shakespeare. 183 
 
 Timandra. "That nature, being sick of luaii's unkindness 
 Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou, 
 Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast, 
 Teems, and feeds all ; whose self-same mettle, 
 Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is pufTd, 
 Engenders the black toad, and adder blue. 
 The gilded newt, and eyeless venom'd worm, 
 With all the abhorred births below crisp heavetj 
 Whereon Hyperion's quickening fire doth shine, 
 Yield him. who all human sons doth hate, 
 From forth thy plenteous bosom one poor root ! 
 Ensear (hy fertile and conceptious womb, 
 Let it no more bring out ingrateful man ! 
 Q-o great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears ; 
 Teem with new monsters, wliom thy upward face. 
 Hath to the marbled mansion all above 
 Never presented ! 0, a root, Dear thanks! 
 Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas ; 
 whereof ingratoful man, with liquorish draughts, 
 And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind. 
 That from it all consideration slips!" 
 
 It is Timon's scorn of the world and self-denial that rouses our 
 
 feeling towards him, and we see him with terror, admiration, and 
 
 pity. The contrast is vividly and marvellously drawn, and the 
 
 language vies with almost any of Shakespeare's plays. Timon's 
 
 most fearful imprecation is that on leaving Athens : 
 
 " Let me look back upon thee, O thou wall, 
 That girdlest in those wolves ! Dive in the earth, 
 And fence not Athens ! .Matrons, turn incontinent! 
 Obedience fail in children! slaves, and fools. 
 Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench. 
 And minister in their steads! to general filths 
 Convert othe instant green virginity! 
 Do't in your parent's eyes! bankrupts, hold fast, 
 Rather than reiulor back, out with your knives. 
 And cut your trusters' throats! bound servants, steal ! 
 Large iianded robbei'ts youi* grave masters are, 
 And pill by law ! maid, to thy mist>'r'8 bed ; 
 Thy mistress is o'the brothel? soi' of sixteen, 
 Pluck the lined crutch from tlie old lim[)iug sire, 
 With it beat out his brains ! p'cty, and fear, 
 Religion to the pods, peace, justice, truth. 
 Domestic awe, niglu-rcst, and neighbourhood. 
 Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades, 
 Degrees, observances, customs, and laws. 
 Decline to your eoiifi)iniding contraries. 
 And yet confusion ! Plagues, incident to men,
 
 184 Shakespeare, 
 
 Your potent and infectious fevours heap 
 On Athens, ripe for stroke ! thou cold sciatica, 
 Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt 
 k% lamely as their manners ! lust and liberty 
 Creep in tlie minds and marrows of our youth ; 
 That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive, 
 And drown themselves in riot! itches, blains. 
 Sow all the Athenian bosoms; and their crop 
 Be general leprosy ! breath infect breath ; 
 That their society, as their friendship, may 
 Be merely poison! Nothing I'll bear from thee, 
 But nakedness, thou detestable town! 
 Take tliou that too, with Tiuiltiplying banns! 
 Timon will to the woods ; where he shall find 
 The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. 
 The gods confound (hear me, ye good gods all,) 
 The Athenians both within and out that wall ! 
 And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow 
 To the whole race of mankind, high and low ! 
 Amen." 
 
 The passage is also beautiful which contains Timon's last words : 
 
 "Come not to me again, but say to Athens, 
 Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 
 Upon the beached verge of the salt flood; 
 Which once a day with his embossed froth 
 The turbulent serge shall cover, thither come. 
 And let my grave-stone be your oracle, 
 Lips, let sour words go by, and language end : 
 What is amiss, plague and infection mend ! 
 Graves only be men's works ; and death, their gain ! 
 Sun, hide I by beams! Timon hath done his reign." 
 
 Although there is equal merit and beauty in the remainder of 
 
 Shakespeare's plays, I have only remarked upon the most popular, 
 
 and even in those, I have preferred to my feeble language in giving 
 
 the more fitting and admirable words of Hazlitt. It seems insolence 
 
 to open Shakespeare with an attempt to criticize, we can only 
 
 regard it with admiration and revel in its beauties, and then close 
 
 it with reverence and awe. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 The effect of Milton's poetry is not so much in what it expresses, 
 as by what it suggests. As Macauley says, "He electrifies the
 
 Milton. J 85 
 
 mind through conductors. Unhke Homer, who sets the images 
 in such a hght that it is impossible to be blind to them; Milton 
 cannot be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the 
 reader co-operates with that of the writer. He does not paint a 
 finished picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, 
 and leaves others to fill up the outline : he strikes the key-note, 
 and expects his hearers to make out the melody. The merit of his 
 poetry lies less in its obvious meaning, than in its excellent power. 
 There would seern at first sight to be no more in his words than in 
 other words ; but they are words of enchantment. No sooner are 
 they pronounced, than the past is present, and the distant near: 
 new forms of beauty start at once into existence, and all the burial 
 places of the memory give up their dead. Cliange tiie structure of 
 the sentence, substitute one synonyme for another, and the whole 
 effect is destroyed. The spell loses its power ; and he who should 
 then hope to conjure with it, would find himself as much mistaken 
 as Cassim in the Arabian Tale, when he stood crying, ' Open 
 Wheat,' 'Open Barley,' to the door which obeyed no sound but 
 'Open Sesame.'" 
 
 The subject of Milton in some points, resembled that of Dante, 
 although he has treated it in a widely different manner. The 
 images which Dante employs speak for themselves, they stand 
 simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a signification 
 which is often discernible only to the initiated- However strange 
 and grotesque, Dante never shrinks from describing any appear- 
 ance or character. His similes are not introduced for the sake 
 of any ornament which they may impart to the poem, but to 
 make the meaning of the writer as close to the reader as it is to 
 himself. 
 
 Campbell says, "Milton's genius had too great a supremacy 
 to belong to any school. Though he acknowledged a filial 
 reverence for Spenser as a poet, he left no Gothic irregular 
 tracery in the design o! his own great work, but gave a classical 
 harmony of parts to its stupendous pile. It thus resembles a dome. 
 the vastness of which is at first sight concealed by its symmetry, but
 
 186 Milton. 
 
 which expands more and more to the eye while it is contemplat- 
 ed." His immense reading extended over the whole field of 
 literature, and in every direction ; and it required all his learning 
 collected by painful study during the best years of liis life, to build 
 up his immortal poem. Let us consider that the materials were 
 a few verses in Genesis, and that the rest is created by his im- 
 agination, supported by industrious and solid reading. There 
 is something that overawes the mind in conceiving his long 
 deliberated selection of that theme ; his attempting it when his 
 eyes were shut upon the face of nature ; his dependence, we might 
 almost say, on supernatural inspiration; and in the calm air of 
 strength with which he opens this poem, beginning a mighty per- 
 formance without the appearance of an effort. Taking the subject 
 all in all, his powers could nowhere else have enjoyed the same 
 scope. It was only from the height of this great argument that he 
 could look back upon eternity past, and forward upon eternity to 
 come; that he could "survey the abyss of infernal darkness, open 
 visions of Paradise, or ascend to heaven, and breathe empyreal air." 
 In the loss of his sight, Milton's ininds^ ^/i? opened, and afforded 
 him ample compensation for the loss of the corporeal organ. Light 
 and life flowed into his mind through surrounding darkness, bless- 
 ing it with the enjoyment of higher thoughts and visions. This 
 reminds us of his beautiful and affecting lines in " The Addfess- to 
 Lis,htr 
 
 "... Thee I revisit safe 
 And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou 
 Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy pieixing ray, and find no dawn : 
 So thick a di'op serene hath quench'd their orbs, 
 Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yel not the more 
 Cease I to wander where the muses haunt, 
 Clear spring or shady grove, or sunny hills, 
 Smit with the love of sacred song. 
 
 What an attestation to the medicinal value of intellectual labour, 
 that it has often cheered, even such desolation as his ! How strong 
 must be the natural love of knowledge in the human mind, that 
 even in the midst of such impediments to its gratification, it has in
 
 Milton. 187 
 
 so many instances so eagerly sought, and so largely attained its end. 
 "Invention," 'says Dr. Johnson,'" is almost the only literary labour 
 which blindness cannot obstruct; and therefore Milton naturally 
 solaced his solitude by the indulgence of his fancy, and the melody 
 of his numbers." 
 
 I will not detail the various portions of the Paradise Lost, nor 
 attempt to analyse its beauties or discrepancies : the extent of this 
 work will only give me scope to show as near as I can the main 
 idea of this great poem, and its bearing upon the time at which 
 Milton lived. 
 
 Obedience, and obedience of a negative kind is set forth as the 
 
 tenure by which man held his original happiness. 
 
 " Of man's first disobedience and the fruit, 
 Of thai forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 BrouglU Death into the world, and jiU our woe, 
 With loss of Eden " 
 
 The tone of this poem, is distinctively Puiitan; we see in the pre- 
 sentation of the solitary pair as the type of human society, the 
 working of the spirit, which, aiming at a noble simplicity has achieved 
 barren nakedness, and which induced Milton to disparage all 
 human hearts and wisdom as vain and corrupt. The Puritan 
 preaching is seen ag.iin in the emphasis in which the past is laid 
 on the future world ; tlie existing state of things being regarded as 
 the insigniticani "point between two eternities." It differs from 
 the /lift 1110 of D.mtc, in tliat Milton gives the action in the 
 far away past and refers to tiie fir-away future; while Dante 
 in his Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, describes tiiree phrases 
 of existence, as present and real a^^ the life in Florence streets; 
 and tlie revelation of men is made in the most matter-of-fact 
 tone, by one wlio had liinisrif i)eif(Trmed the awlid joiune\-. In 
 Milton, we could not expect any ^ueh proclamation of a pre- 
 sent order and kingdom of a rcij^niiv^ (",od, as wc find in Dante, 
 who resemlilcd him in his stern, lirm belief in his own insjiir- 
 ation. 
 
 It i> certainly im di- ii.ir.i:-;eirient to Milton's genius to admit that 
 bolii in the srheme and in tlie details m| liis great work, he attempted
 
 188 Milton. 
 
 the impossible. Only his marvellous power could have given the 
 appearance of success. We may admire with Coleridge, the judge- 
 ment with which the fall of angels is supplied as a background to 
 the Fall of Man, and the origin of Evil thus removed into the dim 
 vista of pre-Adamite ages ; but we cannot help seeing that the 
 mystery thus seemingly explained is as mysterious as ever, nor 
 that Adam and Eve have evidently the knowledge of evil before 
 the Fall. Again, in the Divine dialogues, the poet,"takes advantage 
 in the dramatic representation of God's address to the Son, the 
 Fihal Alternity, to introduce the personal interest required by the 
 poetry, and, to use Coleridge's words, to 'slip in,' as it were by 
 stealth, language of aflection, thought or sentiment, in a variety 
 which he does not attempt to employ elsewhere :" 
 
 "0 Sod, in whom my soul hath chief delight. 
 
 Son of my bosom, Son who art alone 
 
 My word, my wisdom, and eiifectual might, 
 
 All hast thou spok"n as my thoughts are, all 
 
 As mv eternal purpose hath decreed: 
 
 Man shall not quite be lost, but sav'd who will ; 
 
 Yet not of will in him, but grace in me 
 
 Freely vouchsafed ; once more I will renew 
 
 His lapsed powers, though forfeit and enthrall 'd 
 
 J?y sin to foul exorbitant desires : 
 
 Upheld by me, yet onco more he slrdl stand 
 
 On even ground against his mortid foe ; 
 
 By mo upheld, that he may know how frail 
 
 His fall'n condition is, and to me owe 
 
 All his deliv' ranee, and to none but me.'' 
 
 * -k * * * x- 
 
 "O fhou in Heaven and Earth the only peace 
 
 Found out ibi- mankind under wrath I O thou 
 
 Jfy sole complacence ? well thou know'st how dear 
 
 To me lire all my works, nor man the least 
 
 Though la^t created : that for him I spare 
 
 Thee from my bosom and rii,dit hand, to save. 
 
 Ey losing thee awhile, the whole race lost. 
 
 Thou, Ibr-refore, ^^hom thou oidy ciinst redeem, 
 
 '.their nature abo to thy niiture join; 
 
 And be thyself Man among men on earth, 
 
 3Iade flesh, when time shall be, of virgin seed, 
 
 P>y wondi'ous birth ; be thou in Adam's room 
 
 The hend of all mankind, thon Adam's son, 
 
 As in him perish all men. so in thee, 
 
 As from a second root, bhall be restor'd 
 
 As many as arc I'estorcd, without thee none."
 
 Milton. 189 
 
 In this endeavour to preserve the duality of the Divine Interlo- 
 cutors, such limitation is ruinous to a work of art which claims not 
 merely our assent to the conditions, but our belief in the truth of 
 its presentiment. A striking example of the difficulties which 
 abounded in Milton's theme is the great contest with the rebel 
 angels. Strictly speaking, the devils are not conquered by the 
 goodness of God ; they are only punished by his power. To give 
 the appearance of victory, the contest is made no longer spiritual 
 of God with Evil, but material of Force with Force, as in the fol- 
 lowing description of the Battle in the Sixth Book : 
 -Now storming i'm-y rose, 
 
 And clamour such as heord in Ifcav'n till now 
 
 Was never, aims on armour dashing bray'd 
 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 
 Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was tlie noi^e 
 
 Of conflict ; overlicad tlie dismal hiss 
 
 Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew, 
 
 And flying vaulted cither host with fire. 
 
 So under fiery cope together rush'd 
 
 Eoth ha Hies main, with ruinous assault 
 
 And iiic.\tinguishal)le rage : all Hcav'n 
 
 Resounded, and had earlli been tlitii, all earth 
 
 J lad to her centre sliook. What wonder? when 
 
 Millions of fierce cncount'ring angels fought 
 
 On either side, tlie least of whom could Avield 
 
 These elements, aud arm him with tlie force 
 
 Of all their regions: how much more of power, 
 
 Army against army numberless to raise 
 
 Dreadful comijustioii warring, and disturb. 
 
 Though not destroy, theii- happy native seat ; 
 
 Jlad not ih' I'.ternal King omnipotf-nt 
 
 P"rom his strong hold of lleav'n higli o'ci'-rul'd 
 
 And limited tlnir might ; tliDUgh number'd such 
 
 As eacii divided legion might have seem'd 
 
 A numerous host, in strength each armed hand 
 
 A legion ; led in figlit, yet leader .secm'd 
 
 J'-aeh warrior single as in chief, expert 
 
 ^^ hiMi III advanci'. or stand, or turn the swav 
 
 Of battle; open when, and when to close 
 
 The ridges of irrim w;ir; no thought of flight, 
 
 rs'one of retreat, no unbecoming deed 
 
 That nr^u'd finr; e;icli on hiinsi'lf relied 
 
 A> only in hi-' arni I lie moment lav 
 
 Of victory : derds ofeleriK.l fanie" 
 
 \\'ere diMie. but iiilinite : for wide was spread 
 
 I'ilat "ar aiul vai'inu-- ; oometinies oi, limi ground
 
 190 Milton. 
 
 A stnnding fight, then soaring on main wing 
 Tormented all the air ; all air seem'd then 
 Conflicting fii-e : long time in rvon scale 
 Tlie batlle hunjr, till .Satan, who that day 
 Prodigious pnwer had shewn, and met in arms 
 No eqnal, ranging tiirough the dire attack 
 or fighting sera])him confus'd, at length 
 Saw where the sword oC Michael emote, and fell'd 
 Squadrons at once ; with liiige two-handed sway 
 Brandisli'd aloft the hon-Jd edge came down 
 Wide wasting ; such destruction to withstand 
 He hasted, and ojipos'd the rocky orb 
 Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield, 
 A vast circumference." 
 
 In t\iQ Paradise Regained vfthzyQ the triumph of obedience. 
 This obedience is no longer a mere passive submission, or obser- 
 vance of a prohibitive command, but an active seeking after the 
 indications of a Higher Will and an energetic concurrence in his 
 purposes. 
 
 "I who erewhile the happy garden sung. 
 By one man's disobedience lost, now sing 
 RecOTer'd Paradise to all mankind, 
 By one man's fii-m obedience fully tried 
 Through all temptation, and the Tempter foil'd 
 In all his wiles, defeated and repuls'd, 
 And Eden i-ais'd in the waste wilderness,"' 
 
 In selecting the Temptation rather than the Crucifixion as the 
 climax of the self-surrender of Him who became obedient unto 
 death, the poet was partly influenced by the antithesis between the 
 scene, the circumstances and the event of this, and of the primeval 
 assault of the Enemy of man. And in this, particularly, we may see 
 a reference to the times at which Milton lived. The down-trodden 
 Puritans brooded over the disappointment of their darling hopes, 
 'and as the days increased, increased their doubt.' It was surely 
 natural that their poet should turn to contemplate the circumstances 
 in which the Kingdom of Heaven did come with power, and seek 
 to realize rather the victory of the Son of Man over the perplexities 
 of life and the suggestions of evil, than tlie final triumph of his death. 
 
 In this poem Milton claims the highest sanction for the Puritan 
 opinion, of the sole sufficiency of .Scripture for all purposes of life. 
 In its assertion, he exalts Holy Writ as the triumphant rival of all
 
 Milton. 191 
 
 Gentile wisdom and secular knowledge, and limits the inspiration 
 of God to the words and acts recorded there. In the last Book, 
 tyranny is traced to its cause in those who are subjected to its 
 sway, and makes their submission to inward baseness the precursor 
 of outward slavery, ''though to the tyrant thereby no excuse." 
 This is no doubt said of those who welcomed the return of the 
 Stuart. 
 
 In the Saiiiso/i /li^onisies the same thing is expressed; not only 
 with feeling but with fellow-feeling. Samson appeals to us, as the 
 hero and representative of his race, and his brethren still look 
 wistfully to him as their deliverer. Of the religious opinions in 
 these poems I am incapable of commenting. There are passages 
 in which many would object to the doctrines that are conveyed 
 in them. i'.ut we do not read Milion for the doctrinal tenets 
 contained -in his works. In reading with delight the all-but- 
 inspircd poetry of Homer, we are not called on to participate 
 in his Paganism. In reading over Dnnte, our pleasure is not di- 
 minished b\ the firm Romanism of his Creed, 
 
 In ^'Paradise Losl,''' the doctrine is certainly Trinitarian, 
 
 "That glorious form, that light insufferable, 
 And that far beamhig blaze of majesty, 
 A^'herewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table 
 To sit the midst of I'rinal Unity, 
 He laid aside." 
 
 although in later years Milton must have adopted Arian opin- 
 ions, as arc clearly seen by his work on ^'C/in'siiau Docln'nc," 
 "Cod by his decree begot his only Son before the foundations 
 of the world, who was thus the first of all creatures, and by him 
 all things in Leaven and e:n;h were made.'' In '"'' Fayadii,c Re- 
 ^diiied,'^ {.here is also a singular passage \\\ which his opinions are 
 certainly Aiian or Socinian, where Cod the Father is introduced 
 as saying : 
 
 "That all the an;^cls and ethereal [jciwei's, 
 'I hey iiiiw. and men liercafter may discern, 
 from uliat ex'r.siinuniUe virtue 1 liave chose 
 This ;)i.if(jct man, by merit callM my son. 
 To earn salvation for the sons of men.''
 
 H)2 Milton. 
 
 In the Creation also, as described in ^* Paradise Lost," it maybe 
 
 observed that Milton does not ascribe to God the creation of 
 
 niattei". On the contrary, the angels who attend the Deity to his 
 
 creative work. 
 
 "Viewed the vast immeasurable abyss, 
 Ontrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, 
 Up from the bottom turned by furious winds, 
 And surging waves as mountains, to assault 
 Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole." 
 
 That is, they beheld matter already, not only created, but in 
 action. And this is further confirmed in his later theological work. 
 Butler in his Reniifiiscences says, ''The general doctrine, however, 
 contained in the Paradise Regained comprises the doctrines of the 
 old divines, w>, that the immediate consequence of Christ's victory 
 over the temptation in the wilderness, was the diminution of the 
 spiritual power, and the previously allowed dominion on the earth." 
 Milton is supposed to have been in the fifty-fourth year of his 
 age, when he commenced the composition of his immortal Epic, 
 although the high theme had doubtless for some time before occu- 
 pied his thoughts. At this period of his life he was quite blind, 
 and he uttered his harmonious numbers in darkness, as he him- 
 self expresses it, 
 
 " in darkness and with danger compass'd round." 
 He lost his sight, which had early begun to decay, through the 
 intensity of his studies, during the composition of his famous 
 "Defence of the people of England," in answer to Salmasius ; and 
 though he felt the calamity that was coming upon him, he did not 
 relax in his work. We find him afterwards in one of his majestic 
 strains consoling himself under the loss of his sight by the thought 
 of the cause in which he had sacrificed it : 
 
 "What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
 The conscience friend, to have lost them overplied 
 In libei-ty's defence, my noble taik, 
 Whereof all Europe rings from bide to side." 
 
 Paradise Lost, was probably only the work of three or four years; 
 but this poem, as is well known, was not the only fruit of the noble 
 intellect of Milton. Besides a mass of political and other tracts,
 
 Milton. 193 
 
 we owe to him the Paradise Regained and the Samson Agonistes 
 the not unworthy companions of his grander song. No com- 
 parison can be justly instituted between the two works Paradise 
 Lost, and Paradise Regained. The Paradise Regained is finished 
 with equnl care, and in its style is as perfect as the other. All 
 its component parts are in unison with the subject, while there 
 are not wanting passages that, rising into the greatest beauty it 
 would be difficult to surpass, even in Paradise Lost. 
 
 The Nativity of Milton, says Lander, "is incomparably the 
 noblest piece of lyric poetry in any modern language." In diction 
 it imitates the stanzas of Spenser. The stanzas four to seven are 
 delightful, and perhaps the finest parts of the poem : 
 
 "No war, or battle's sound 
 Was heard the world iiround: 
 
 The idle spear and shieltl were high up hung; 
 Tlie honked chariot stood 
 CJnstain'd with hostih^ blood, 
 . Tlie trumpet spake not to the armed throng; 
 And kinys .-ate Htill witii awful eye, 
 As if ihcy surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 
 
 But peaceful was the night 
 Wiierein the Prince of liglit 
 
 His rei<;n of peace upon tlie earth began : 
 The winds with wonder wiiist 
 Smoothly tl'.e waters kist, 
 
 Wliispcring new joys to the mild Ocean, 
 Wlio now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 
 
 Tlie stars with dcepama.'.e 
 Stand fixt in slcdfist paze, 
 
 ])euding one way their precious influence ; 
 And will not take their tlight, 
 For all the morning light. 
 
 Or l.ucifiT that often warn'd them thence; 
 But in ihi'ir glimmcrliii,' iirbs did glow, 
 Until their Lord liim.sclf bespake, and bid them go. 
 
 And though lhr> sb.adv L'loom 
 Had given day hi-r ro ':ii, 
 
 The sviu hiiiKoir w iihh'-ld his wonted speed ; 
 And hid his hrad for sluiiue, 
 As his inferior llame 
 
 The new-enliglUen'd world no more should need
 
 194 Milton. 
 
 He saw a greiiter Sun appear 
 
 Tlian liis l)iiglit throne, or burning axle-tree could bear." 
 
 Milton then gives us a splendid contrast in the Passion, written 
 in language that impresses us at once with the awfulness and sig- 
 nificance of the details. The following are some of the most 
 beautiful of the stanzas : 
 
 "Erewhile of music, and ethereal mirth, 
 Wherewith the stage of air and eartli did ring, 
 And joyous news of Heav'nly Infant's birth, 
 My muse witli aiii^els did divide to sing ; 
 But headlong joy is ever on the wing ; 
 
 In wintry solstic like the short'nd light. 
 Soon swallow'd' up in dark and long out-living night. 
 
 For now to sorrow must I tune my song, 
 And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, 
 Which on our dearest I,f)rd did seize ere long; 
 Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, 
 Which he f(n' us did freely undergo. 
 
 Most perfect hero, tried in heaviest plight 
 Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight ! 
 
 ^:- * * * 
 
 Befriend me Xiglit, best patroness of gi-ief. 
 Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw. 
 And work my flaiterd fancy to belief 
 That Heav'n and Earth are colc)ur'd with my woe ; 
 My sorrows Jire too dark for day to know : 
 
 The leaves should all be black wliereon I write, 
 And letters where my tears have wash'd a wannish white, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock 
 That was the casket of Ileav'ns richest store ; 
 And here though grief my feeble bands up lock, 
 Yet on the soft'ned qu'irry would I score 
 My plaining verse as lively as before ; 
 
 For sure so well instructed are my tears. 
 That they would fitly fall in order'd ciiai'acters. 
 
 Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing. 
 Take up a weeping on the mountains wild. 
 The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring 
 Would soon unbf'Soni ail their echoes mild ; 
 And I (for grief is easilv lieguiled) 
 
 Might tidiik til' infection of n-iy sorrows loud 
 Had got a race of mournei's on some pregna!;t cloud. " 
 
 In the Odes on 7 i/ue.Mid At (? .S'i9/V///;; J/z/i/V, there is expressed 
 
 the ideal of a passive celestial felicity, in an expansion and exag-
 
 Milton. l9o 
 
 geration of the figurative language of Scripture. The first On 
 
 Time is exquisitely written : 
 
 " P'ly envious Time, till tliou run out tby race, 
 
 Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, 
 
 Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace ; 
 
 ^nd glut thyself with what thy womb devours, 
 
 Which is no more than what is false and vain, 
 
 And merely mortal dross ; 
 
 So little is our loss, 
 
 So little is thy gain. 
 
 For when as I'ach thing bad thou hast entomb'd, 
 
 And last of all, thy greedy self-consum'd ; 
 
 Then long J'Jternity shiill greet our bliss 
 
 With an individual kiss ; 
 
 And joy shall overtake us as a flood ; 
 
 When every thing that is sincerely good 
 
 And perfectly divine. 
 
 With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine 
 
 About the supreme throne 
 
 Of liim, t' whose happy-mal<ing sight alone. 
 
 When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb, 
 
 Then all this eartliy grossness quit, 
 
 Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit, 
 
 Triumphing over Death, and Ci)ance, and theeO Time." 
 
 The other, /?/(T Soletnn Music, has in it all that expressive melody 
 
 for which much of Milton's poetry is admired. 
 
 " Bl"8t pair of Sirens, pledges of Heavens joy, 
 
 Sphere-born harinonius sisters, Voice and Verse, 
 
 Wed your divine sounds; and mixt power employ 
 
 Dead things with inbreaih'd sense able to pierce ; 
 
 And to our hii^h rais'd phantasy present 
 
 That undisturbed song ot' purtj content, 
 
 Aye sung before the 8a]ipliirc-colour'd throne 
 
 To him that sits thereon 
 
 With eaintly shout, anri solemn jubilee ; 
 
 Where the bi'igiil sernphim in burning row 
 
 Their loud up-lil'icd angel trumpets blow, 
 
 Aiul the ciierubic host in fhonsaiul quires 
 
 Touch their iniinort;il harps of golden wire.'?, 
 
 With those just spirit> that wear viotorinis palms. 
 
 Hymns (hn'out and holy psalms 
 
 Singing everlastingly : 
 
 That we on ICarth with uidisi-ordin^ voice 
 
 May riglitly ans\\er that nn'hxlioiis noi^e : 
 
 -As once we did, till (lisjiroport ion'd sin 
 
 Jarr'd a^.'ani>l natnrc't. chnne. and with har.^h din 
 
 Brokf the lair music that all creaturi s ni.ulf
 
 196 Milton. 
 
 To their great Lord ; whose love their motion sway'd 
 In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
 In first obedience, and their stute of good, 
 
 may we soon again retievv that song, 
 
 And keep in tune with Ileav'n, till God ere long 
 
 To liis celestiiil consort us unite. 
 
 To live with him, and sing in endless morn of liglit." 
 
 The Samson Agonistes may be considered as one of the noblest 
 dramas in our language, although the plot is not skilfully arranged, 
 and the lyrical measures are totally destitute of any intelligible 
 rhythm ; but its pathetic feeling, its rich and select language, its 
 wise and weighty thoughts, give elevation to the whole poem. 
 
 The Conms was unacknowledged by the author when it first 
 appeared, and Lycidas appeared at first only with his initials. 
 The former is, with the exception of a few passages, one of the 
 most finished poems in our language. It has all the sweetness of 
 Fletcher, with a richer structure of versification, more foreign idioms 
 and a higher reach of fancy. It is full of sublime sentiment, pic- 
 turesque description, and ornamental experiments. The numbers 
 in some parts of this poem, are often as melodious as the verse of 
 Shakespeare himself. The following speech of Comus is one 
 amongst many examples that might be given : 
 
 " I know each lane, and every alley green, 
 Dingle, or biisLj dell of Ibis wild wood. 
 And every bosl<y bourn from side to side, 
 My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood 
 And if your si ray attendance be yet lodg'd, 
 Or shroud within these limits, I shall know. 
 Ere morrow wake, or the low ronsted birk. 
 From her thalch'd pallet rouse ; if otiierwise 
 
 1 Can conduct you, lady to a low 
 
 But loyal cottiige, where you may bo safe, 
 Till further que.st." 
 
 For clearness ofdesign, beauty of form, and precision of language, 
 this allegory is unri\alled. The epilogue by which it is closed, 
 shadows forth in its mythical characters, the sluggishness and sad- 
 ness of mere earthly passion, ard the superior worth and dignity 
 of the love which may have its beginning tlierein, but must await 
 its developement and joyful consummation in a higher and holier
 
 Milton. 197 
 
 region, where are the springs of freedom and of power. 
 
 "To the ocean now I fly, 
 And tliQse happy climes that lie 
 Where day never shuts his eye, 
 Up in the broad fiehls of tlie sky : 
 There 1 suck the liquid air 
 All amidst the gardens fair 
 Ot Hesperus, and liis daughters three 
 That sing about the golden tree: 
 Along the ciisped shades and bowers 
 I-ievels the spruce and jocund Spring ; 
 The Graces, and the r'sy-bosom'd Hoars, 
 Tliiiher ail their bounties bring, 
 That their eternal summer dwells ; 
 And west winds, with musky wing 
 ^bout the cedarn alleys fling 
 Nard, and Cassia's balmy smells. 
 Iris there with humid bow. 
 Waters the odorous baid<s that blow 
 Flowers of more mingled hue 
 Tlim her purfl'd scarf can show; 
 Aiul drenches with Elysian dew 
 (List murtals. if your ears be true) 
 Bed.s of hyacinth and roses, 
 V\ here young Adonis oft reposes. 
 Waxing well of his deep wijunrl 
 In shimber suft ; and on the gi-ound 
 Sadly sits th' A? yri:ui queen : 
 But far above in spangled sheen 
 Celestial Cupid ln>r fam'd son advanc'd, 
 Jlolile his dear Psychi' sweet entranc'd, 
 After hr-r wand'ring labours long ; 
 Till free ci)n3cnt the i^ods among 
 Make her liis etei-nal i)ri(le : 
 And from Ii'm- fair uns])otteil side 
 Two blissful twins are to be born. 
 Youth atul tloy; so Ji)\r hath sworn. 
 
 But now my lasl. is smoothly done, 
 I can llv, or I can run 
 Quickly to ihi' ^^i-imm; eai'ih's end. 
 Where lb i>..wM w.lkiii ^low doth bend : 
 And iVom IliiMu'i' can so.ir :i:? sooii 
 To tlie coiT.ci-s oi' I ii'' iii'Miii. 
 
 .Mortals tii.it would fniN.w me. 
 Love virtue ; sih' aioiic i-. lVi'i> ; 
 .Siic can te;,f!i I \\ , li to i-Iimli 
 Higher t Inn t \v -iiin-i y chinu; ; 
 Or if virtui' lecliie w. ro. 
 Henv'n its'-lf would gio ip lo her, "
 
 ]&8 Milton. 
 
 There was a pause between the Comus and the Lycidas, At the 
 conclusion of the former poem, Milton was prepared to rest, until 
 his life's "mellowing year," should bring to him the inward ripe- 
 ness he had so long watched for. "Long choosing and beginning 
 late " his lofty theme, he was anxious not to forestall the season 
 due of his laurels, by strains which to his purged ears would be 
 "harsh and crude," though to others they might seem the resound- 
 ing grace of Heaven's harmony. But though thus self-contained, 
 he shrank from no obligation that human kindness might lay upon 
 him. His friend's memory claimed and received the meed of a 
 melodious tear. In Lycidas the event which gave occasion for the 
 poem has the first place, and the various changes of theme are 
 subordinate. As he recalls his life at Cambridge with his friends, 
 and all the rich promises that Death had blighted, 
 
 " For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, 
 
 Fed the same flock, by louulaiii, shade, and rill. 
 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 
 
 Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, 
 
 We drove afield; and both togetlier heard 
 
 What time the gray-fly winds hei- sultry horn, 
 
 Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
 
 Oft till tlie star that rose at ev'ning, bright, 
 
 Towards Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 
 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
 
 Teniper'd to the oaten flute ; 
 
 Eough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel 
 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long. 
 
 And old Damtt'tus lov'd to hear our song. 
 
 But the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
 
 Now thou ai-t gone, and never must return ! 
 
 Thee shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, 
 
 W'ith wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er grown. 
 
 And all their echoes mourn. 
 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
 
 Shall now no more be seen. 
 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays : 
 
 As killing as the canker to the rose. 
 
 Or laint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear. 
 
 When fii-st the white-thorn blows; 
 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to sheplierd"s ear." 
 
 The thought presses on him, that even for one, for whom uni-
 
 Milton. 199 
 
 versal nature might lament, the same dark fate may be at hand, 
 
 " Had ye b'>en thf?re . . . for wliaf. could tliat have done? 
 
 What cuidd tlio Muse herself that Orplieus bore, 
 
 The Muse herself, for her enchanting son 
 
 Whom univei-sal Nature did lament; 
 
 When by the rout that made tlie hideous roar, 
 
 Ilis gory visage down the stream was sent, 
 
 Down the swilt Ilebrus to the Lesbian shore? 
 
 Alas I what boots it with incessant care 
 
 To tend the liomely slighted shepherd's trade. 
 
 And strictly meditate the th;uiklt'ss Muse? 
 
 Were it. not better done as others use. 
 
 To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
 
 Or with the tangles of >7ecera's iiair? 
 
 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, 
 
 (That last infirmity of noble minds) 
 
 To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 
 And lljjidc to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 
 Comr>s the blind Fury wiih th' abhorred shear.s, 
 
 And sliis the (bin spun life. -But not the praise, 
 
 Phoebus repli'd, and toiieli'd my trembling ears ; 
 
 'Fame is no plant tint grows on moi-tal soil, 
 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 
 Set off to tir world, nor in brond rumour lies 
 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. 
 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
 
 Of so miieli fame in Ileav'n exjiect thy meed,' ' 
 
 After this outburst on Fame, that strain is said to be of a higher 
 mood, and the pastoral pipe proceeds. Then the stern denuncia- 
 tion of "the pilot of the Galilean lake" scares away the lighter 
 mythologic fancies, till they are wooed back by tlic melodious 
 invocation to the Sicilian AIusc, with its cciiocs of Pcrdita's cata- 
 logue of flowers. 
 
 -retuin Sicilian '\\\ 
 
 And call the vales, and bid them bi'lici" east, 
 Their b'dls, ami flow'rei.s of a thousand hues. 
 Ye vidlf'vs low, whei'c fli'' mild wliis]ji'!-s use 
 Of shade-* anrl wanton winds, and o'L-liing brooks 
 On whose IVi'.sli lap th" ^\\arl sl.\r sparely hjuks, 
 Thi-ow hilliei- all wjur n aiiit en.inieird eyes, 
 
 'J'llat 0:1 t'le ureel'l t 1 1 i 1' .-. i ,r 1. the ll,,',i..d -hoWrS, 
 
 And pui-ple:ill ihe i;ro;)Md wilii Vej-iial iliu'r-. 
 IJriiig liic raihe pruiirMse that foi'salvi-n dies, 
 J'he tiiliel (Tiiw-loe. and p,de jessami ne, 
 The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
 
 200 Milton. 
 
 The glowing violet, 
 
 The inusk-i-ose, aticl the well attir'd woodbine ; 
 
 With C!)wsli|)s wan Miat limig tlif^ pensive head, 
 
 And every flower tiiat s;id enihiMidery wears : 
 
 Bid Amariinthiis nil his beauty shed, 
 
 And diiffadillies fill their cups with tears. 
 
 To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies." 
 
 The following melodious passage concludes this poem, which as 
 
 a pastoral poem ranks first in our language : 
 
 "Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more ; 
 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
 Sunk though he be Ijeneath the wat'ry floor ; 
 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed ; 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
 And tricks his beams, a :d with new-spangled ore 
 Flames in the forehead oF the morning sky : 
 So Lycidiis sunk low, but mounted high. 
 'J'hrongh the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; 
 Where other groves and other streams along. 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the saints above, 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
 That sing, and singing in their glory move. 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
 Hencefoi-th thou art the genius ofthe shore. 
 In thy lai-ge i-ecomppuse ; and shall be good 
 To all that wander in that p^M-ilons flood." 
 
 Of the picturesque imagery, the musical versificatiort and brilliant 
 language of the Allegro and Penseroso, praise too high cannot be 
 heard. They have all the pastoral beauties and sweet descriptions 
 of our elder poets, cn'ibellished by a richer style and more refined 
 combination. They are described by Macauley, as "collections of 
 hints, from each of which the reader is to make out a poem for 
 himself Every epithet is a text for a stanza." They do not possess 
 those soul-moving passages and lines, glowing witli a fiery intensity, 
 which abound in the Paradise Lost; but they are rich with beau- 
 tiful touches, and exemplify the sweetness of Milton's veise. 
 
 In the L' Allegro, Milton's mirth is sportive and innocent. The 
 delight in the common country sights and sounds, recalls the for- 
 esters of Arden, and the carol of Amiens. His " woodnotes wild"
 
 Milton. 201 
 
 are the only pleasure in the whole L'AUegro catalogue which have 
 a strictly mental origin ; and they are not evoked by the imagination 
 of the reader, but are enjoyed by a passive spectator at the theatre; 
 contrasting in this particular with the "gorgeous tragedy" of the 
 Penseroso. The classical imagery of L' Allegro belongs only to 
 the speaker Milton, but the incidents of the time are entirely Eng- 
 lish and common-place, of his own time. The past is represented 
 only by its superstitions and traditional customs. The future is 
 not represented at all. The opening lines of each poem express the 
 royal audacity of youth, banishing with an air of irrevocable de- 
 cision the mood opposed to the inclination of the moment. 
 
 "Hence loathed ArpLinclioly, 
 
 Of Cei'benis and blackest Midnight born, 
 
 In Stygian cave forlorn, 
 'Mongst iiorrid shapes, and slirieks, and sight unholy; 
 
 Find out some uncoutli cell. 
 ^Yhele brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, 
 And the night-raven sings; 
 
 Tliere under ebon siiades, and low-brow'd rocka 
 As ragged as tliy locks, 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
 * -X- ( 
 
 Haste thee, nynipli, ana bring with thee. 
 Jest and youthful Jollity, 
 Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. 
 Nods and becks, and wreatbed smiles, 
 Such as hangs on Hebe's clieek. 
 And long to live in dinipl ' sleek : 
 Sport that wrinkled (^are derides. 
 And laughter holding both his sides. 
 Come, and trip it as you go 
 On tbe light fantastic toe ; 
 And in lliy right hand lead witli tlioe, 
 The mountain nynipli. sweet Liberty; 
 And i( I give thee honour duo. 
 Mirth, admit mo of tliy cr.-w, 
 To live with her, and live with tlioe, 
 In un reproved ))leasuies IrLC, 
 To hear the lark begin his lliglit. 
 And singing startle the dull Niglit, 
 From his watch tower in the skies, 
 Till the dajjpled dawn doth rise ; 
 Then to come in spite ol .Sorrow, 
 .And at my window bid good-morrow. 
 
 I A.
 
 202 Milton. 
 
 Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 
 Or the twisted eglantine: 
 While the cock with lively din 
 Scatters the rear of Darkness thin, 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door 
 Stoutly struts his dames before: 
 Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 
 Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring Morn, 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill. 
 
 Sometime walking not unseen 
 By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. 
 Eight against the eastern gate. 
 Where the great Sun begins his state, 
 Eob'd in flames, and amber light. 
 While the ploughman near at hand 
 Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. 
 And the milk-maid singeth blithe, 
 And the mowei- whets liis scythe, 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 Under the hawthorn in tlie dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. 
 Whilst the land.sc;ipe round it measures : 
 Russet lawns, and fiillows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray. 
 Mountains on whose barren brenst 
 The lab'ring clouds do often rest; 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied ; 
 Shallow bi'ooks and i-ivcrs wide : 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 Bosom d high in tui'ted ti-ees, 
 Where perhaps .some beauty lies, 
 The Cynosure of neighb'ring eyes." 
 
 In the Pe nseroso the past and the foreign are present and familiar. 
 
 It is a striking contrast to the homely simplicity of the L'AUegro. 
 
 The one is the daughter of Zephyr and Aurora, born of the breeze 
 
 and the moaning in the prime of May, when the spring time stirs 
 
 the youthful blood and buoyant fancy. 
 
 " heart-easing Mirth, 
 
 Whom lovely Yenus, at a birth. 
 
 With two sister Graces more 
 
 To ivy crown'd Bacchus bore ; 
 
 Or whether (as some sages sing) 
 
 The frolic wind that bi'eathes the springs, 
 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
 
 As he met her once a-Maying ;
 
 Milton. 203 
 
 There on beds of violets blue, 
 And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, 
 Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, 
 So buxom, blithe, and debonaire." 
 
 The other, Melancholy, is the offspring of Saturn and Vesta 
 
 born while yet there was no fear of Jove before the power of the 
 
 importunate Zeus, the irresistible rushing life, is felt or known 
 
 carries us into the far-away past, wherein "all things gain a glory 
 
 by their being far. " 
 
 " Hence vain deluding joys, 
 The brood of Folly without father bred, 
 How little you bested. 
 
 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ; 
 Dwell in some idle brain ; 
 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
 As thick and numberless 
 As the !?ay motes that people the sun-beams , 
 Or like'^t hovering dreams, 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
 But bail tliou Goddess, sage and holy, 
 Hail divinest Melancholy 
 
 Come pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
 Sober, stedfast, and demure, 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 Flowinj; witli majestic train. 
 And sable stole of cipres lawn, 
 Over tlie decent slioulders drawn. 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
 With ev'n step, and musing gait, 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
 Tbero held in holy passion stdl, 
 Forjj^et thyself to marble, till 
 With a sad leaden downward cast. 
 Thou fix them on tiie earth as fast. 
 And join with the calm Peace, and Quiet, 
 Spare i'ast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
 And hears the Muses in a ring, 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing. 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
 But first, and chiefest, with thoe bring, 
 Him that soars on i^oUien wing. 
 Guiding the tiery-whccled throne, 
 The cherub Contemplation,
 
 204 Milton. 
 
 And the mute Silence hist along, 
 
 'Less Philomel will design a song, 
 
 III her sweetest, saddest plight, 
 
 Smoothing the nigged brow of Night, 
 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 
 
 Gently o'er th' aecustom'd oak : 
 
 Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 
 Thee chaimtress oft the woods among, 
 
 I woo to hear thy even-song ; 
 
 And missing thee, I walk unseen, 
 
 On the dry smooth sbaven green. 
 
 To. behold the wandering Moon, 
 
 Eiding near her highest noon. 
 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 
 Through the Heav'ns wide pathless way ; 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd. 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft on a plat of risinj; ground, 
 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound. 
 
 Over some wide-water'd shore, 
 
 Swinging slow with t-ullen roar ; 
 
 Or if the air will not permit. 
 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom. 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth. 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy cliarin, 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 
 
 Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
 
 Be seen in some high lou'^ly tow"r, 
 
 Wiiere I may oft out-watch the Bear, 
 
 With thrice-great llermes ; or umsphere 
 
 The spirit of Plato to unfold 
 
 What worlds, or what vast i-egions hold 
 
 The immortal mind that hath forsook 
 
 Her mansion in this fleshy nook; 
 
 And of those demons that are found 
 
 In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
 
 Whose power hath a true consent 
 
 With planet, or with element. 
 
 Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
 
 In scepler'd j)?!) come sweejjinjr by, 
 
 J'resentini.'- Thebes, or l-'elop's line. 
 
 Or the tale of i'roy divine. 
 
 Or what (though rare) of later age. 
 
 Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage."
 
 Milton. 205 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale. 
 And love tbe high embowed roof, 
 With antique pillars massy proof, 
 And storied windows riclily dight, 
 Casting a dim religious light. 
 There the peelin<T; ort^an blow 
 To the full voic'd quire below 
 In service high, and anthems clear, 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
 And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my weary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
 The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
 Where I may sit, and rightly spell 
 Of every star, that TTeav'ii doth show, 
 And evpry herb that sips the dew ; 
 Till old experience do attain 
 To something like nrojihctic strain. 
 
 Tliese pleasures Melancholy give, 
 And I with thee will clioose to live. " 
 
 Milton is tlie most sublime of all poets. To write with sublimity 
 is to chose the greatest, the most splendid or the most awful, exis- 
 ting or imaginable objects and to express or display them with a 
 corresponding propriety, force and majesty of expression. His 
 greatness is established by the testimony which every mind aliveto 
 the_ beautiful and great will bear to his genius. To ag.iin use 
 Macaulay's words, "he is the first of poets, in splendour of con- 
 ception, pomp of language, and in description of prodigious 
 things. The impression it leaves is analagous to that elevating 
 pleasure which cartoon paintings of the first masters excite, 
 and nothing can exceed in beauty or sublimity, those pictures 
 of the fallen angels in their march over hell, and in their council of 
 Pandemonium." Yet, though Milton may be considered the most 
 sid)lime of poets, we could not justly call him the first of poets. 
 The snjx'i iority is cortaiidy with Sliakcsjicre. He is a noble ex- 
 ample of what perseverance may accomplish in the face of the 
 most formidable difficulties. It would seem almost as if life 
 could scarcely continue desirable, to him whose hourly tliought 
 may be expressed in his beautiful and pathetic lamentations.
 
 206 Milton 
 
 " with the year 
 
 Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
 
 But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
 
 Surrounds me, from tlie clieerfuL ways of men 
 
 Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair. 
 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 
 Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased." 
 
 We cannot mourn over the sightless orbs of Milton ; he could 
 
 not have done greater things than he did in his blindness : 
 
 " Samson hath quit himself 
 
 Like Samson, and heroically hath finished 
 
 A life heroic. 
 
 Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail, 
 
 Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt^ 
 
 Dispraise or blame ; nothing but well and fair." 
 
 We may here quote that beautiful stanza which he himself wrote 
 on his blindness : 
 
 "When I consider how my light is spent, 
 
 Ere lialf ray days, in liiis dark woidd and wide. 
 
 And Ihat one talent which is death to hide 
 
 Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 
 My t rue account, lest; lie returning chide ; 
 
 'Doth God exact day labour, light, deni'd ?' 
 
 I Ibndly ask : but Patience, to ]irevent 
 That nnu-iiuii-, soon replies, God doih not need 
 
 Eilher man's work, oi- his own gifts ; who best 
 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him be-t : his state 
 Is kingly ; lhou>ands at liis bidding sjieed, 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 
 They also serve who only stand and wait' : " 
 
 I will conclude by quoting the beautiful lines of Tennyson, 
 written upon Milton : 
 
 "O mij;hty mouth'd inventor of harmonies 
 O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity 
 God-gifted organ-voice of England 
 Milton, a name to resound for ages 
 Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel. 
 Starr'd from Jehovah's trorgeous armories, 
 Tower, as the deep-domed J<>mpyrean, 
 Kings to the roar of an angel onset 
 Me rather all that bowery loneliness,
 
 Dtyden. 207 
 
 The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
 And bloom profnse and cedar arches 
 Chnrm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
 Where Bome refulgent sunset of India 
 Streams o'er a rich anbrosial ocean isle, 
 And crimson-hued the stately palm woods 
 Whisper in odorous heights of Even." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 Dryden. This poet was beyond all comparison the greatest 
 poet of his own day. He was not only endued with a vigorous 
 imagination, but possessed a mastery over his language which no 
 other writer has ever attained. Yet his merits have always been 
 indifferently acknowledged. Our zeal for the poets who preceded 
 the civil wars, like most reactions, is become too exclusive. But 
 we are too much inclined to confound with the period, which be- 
 gan with Addison and Pope, that intermediate time, from the 
 Restoration to the end of the century, in which, though French 
 taste had a good deal of effect, the former nature, or Italian spirit 
 still operated, and the taste of the French themselves had not yet 
 quite arrived at its most corrected and characterized form. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott speaks of Dryden as the "Great High Priest of 
 all the Nine." Gray wrote to He.Utie, " Remember Dryden, and be 
 blind to all his faults.'' and Po|)c's enthusiastic praise of hini is 
 familiar to us all. Dryden is our best model of lani;uage, in prose 
 or verse. His want of popularity is partly owing to his inequalities. 
 Much of his poetry is uninteresting, and a good deal is incorrect, 
 over-fanciful or course ; so nuich of the latter tliat it is alone a 
 sufficient reason, why his cnliie poems cannot be given to women 
 or to yonng persons with a \ iew to education. Many of his 
 poems, too, are occasional ; and relate as a whole, to subjects no 
 longer interesting.
 
 208 Dryden 
 
 Upon none of our poets have more conflicting judgments been 
 pronounced than upon Dryden. The unanimous verdicts of his 
 critics give him a high place ; but remarkable differences exist, in 
 determining exactly what the place is. Hazlitt places him below 
 Pope, and at the head of the second class of poets. Coleridge who 
 will not admit him to be a poet at all places him immeasurably 
 above Pope. ''Cowley %vas a poet," observes Coleridge, "which 
 with all my unfeigned admiration of his vigorous sense, his agile 
 logical wit, and his high excellencies of diction and metre, is worse 
 than (in the str-ict sense of the word poet), I can conscientiously 
 say of Dryden. Only if Pope was a foet, as Lord Byron swears, 
 then Dryden, I admit, was a very great poet^* Out of this con- 
 flict of judgments comes an indestructible fame, commanding the 
 common assent of all. There must have been a permanent element 
 in his genius to produce this. What was it? In one word power. 
 It was this great characteristic that raised Dryden above all his 
 contemporaries, and preserves him on his elevation. He was 
 distinguished above all things else, for strength of thought, strength 
 of purpose, strength of diction. He was a strong man in verse 
 and prose ; bold, energetic, self-reliant, and wide in his reach. 
 There was no weakness in Dryden ; no compromise of means or 
 ends. Perhaps there was not much tenderness ; yet he had a 
 certain manly sweetness at times, that was all the more precious 
 and affecting from its rarity, and because it seemed to come from 
 the depth of his nature. There was real physical passion, undis- 
 guised sensuousness ; no love. Robust in all things, his poetry 
 has an insight and an earnestness, that takes it out of the atmos- 
 phere of the imaginative. It is never airy, never sportive. He 
 made poetry the vehicle of politics and controversy not of feeling 
 or of fancy. There is not a single love passage throughout the 
 whole, such as we find in Shakespeare or in Fletcher, touching 
 the springs of tears in the heart, and awakening in the reader the 
 emotion it depicts. When be ventures in this direction; it is to 
 exhibit highly wrought artificial turns of gallantry. His Litics on 
 the Duchess of Portsmouth, or the luscious descriptions in Cymon 
 
 ' Noteb oil Pepy'.s, JVoifs and Queries, \'I. 2i.j.
 
 Dryden. 209 
 
 rt(^//;>/^.?;rt, will testify to this. He treads heavily, and every 
 foot-fall crushes the earth beneath. 
 
 There was nothing of what is termed sentiment in Dryden. He 
 seldom produces any other emotions than those of indignation, 
 ridicule, or surprise. He constantly makes you think, but very 
 rarely makes you feel. There are some few lines in his plays, and 
 occasionally a whole passage, that reaches the verge of pathos ; 
 but you are conscious that it is not real, and that what is real in 
 him, and paramount, is sarcasm, scorn, logic, and wit. Yet Dry- 
 den's mind is eminently poetical. He turns everything into 
 imagination. It is like great painters, such as Titian and Rubens, 
 representing common objects ; quite naturally, indeed, but at the 
 same time with a warmth and richness which they do not suggest 
 to the minds of the vulgar observers, nor derive from the pencil of 
 inferior artists. His elegant ideas and expressions are thrown out 
 with a real delight, and scattered with an easy profuseness, where 
 a writer of the later scliool would crow over them, and make much 
 of them, individually. When we then see the spirit of Dryden, 
 bursting into poetry and imagination upon every subject, and par- 
 ticularly when, becoming more and more matured, he discards the 
 love of ingenious conceits which he had been taught, and perhaps 
 had taught himself, in his youth; it forms an extraordinary contrast 
 with the very prosaic subjects, nay style, which he so frequently 
 chooses and cultivates. But he was an eminently manly character. 
 Poet as he was, he did not like^ as Byron says, to be "all poet." 
 Besides this, it was not a poetical age. If he did not write on 
 poetical subjects, nobody else did. 
 
 One of the greatest merits of Dryden lies in his diction. He 
 has avoided whatever was antiquated or pedantic in his predeces- 
 sors, and in the treatment of a lower range of subjects, has 
 observed that idiomatic jiuiily which they exhibited in the higher 
 walks of poetry. Pope savs, ' he always uses proper language: 
 lively, natural, and lilted to the subject. It is scarcely ever too 
 high or too low; never perliaps, cxcejjt in his plays.'' Dryden 
 not only uses the right word in the right place ; but he never uses 
 
 I B.
 
 210 Dryden. 
 
 it in an ambiguous sense, and strictly confines himself to the forms 
 and resources of his own language. Perhaps, of all English poets, 
 Dryden is the most English. He is as emphatically Saxon, as 
 Pope is conspicuously French. As a prose writer, the Saxon fla- 
 vour of his language, is as strong as his matter is full and weighty. 
 His style is everywhere fluent, masterly and idiomatic. The 
 same boldness and largeness of conception marked everything he 
 undertook. To remodel Shakespeare and turn IMilton into rhyme, 
 were not the projects of an ordinary mind ; and if he failed in the 
 execution of these designs, there was a waste of splendour in the 
 failure that makes its example illustrious. It has been observed, 
 that what was said of Rome adorned by Augustus, might be ap- 
 plied by an easy metaphor to English poetry. He found it brick, 
 and left it marble. His tragedies though they consist chiefly in 
 "absurd bluster, chop-logic, and Frenchified gallanterie, " have 
 scattered about them, bursts of imagination, the more remarkable 
 because they seem to force their way in spite of the spirit of the 
 age, instead of harmonizing with it, as in the case of Shakespeare : 
 gushes of simple, child-like, and tender feeling more rarely that 
 feeling which is expected in tragedy; grand flow of manly spirit. 
 This may be seen more so in the Conquest of Granaddy from which 
 I have selected one or two passages ; 
 
 Benz. "Love, then, iny Ozmyn ; 1 will be content 
 
 To make you wretched by your own consent: 
 
 Live poor, despis'd, and banish'd for my sake, 
 
 And all the burden of my sorrows take ; 
 
 For, as for me, in whatso'cr estate, 
 
 WJiile I have you, I must be fortunate. 
 Ozmyn. Thus, tbi^n, secur'd of what wo hold most dear 
 
 (Each other's love) we'll go I know not, whe)-e. 
 
 Foi* where, alas, should we our flight l)egin ? 
 
 The foo'.s without ; our parents arc within. 
 Benz. I'll fly to yon ; and you sliall fly to me : 
 
 Our flight but to each other's arms shall be. 
 
 To Providr-nee and chance permit the rest ; 
 
 Let us but love cnougli, and we are blcr^t."' 
 
 * ;;- -Jr * -x- * 
 
 Almanz "A hollow wind comes wliistling through thattVaor; 
 And a cold sliiv'ring seizes me all o'er:
 
 Dry den. 21 1 
 
 My teeth, too, chatter with a sudden fright : 
 These are the raptures of too fierce delight, 
 The combat of tlie tyrants, hope and fear ; 
 Which hearts, for want of field-room, cannot bear. 
 I grow impatient ; this, or that's the room : 
 I'll meet her; now, methiiiks, I hear her come. 
 
 Again by Heav'n I do conjure thee, speak, 
 What art thou, spirit ? and what dost thou seek? 
 Ghost. I am the ghost of her who gave thee birth ; 
 The airy shadow of her mould'ring earth. 
 Love of thy father me tiirougli seas did guide ; 
 On seas I bore thee, and on seas I died. 
 I died : and for my winding sheet a wave 
 I had; and all the ocean for my grave. 
 But when my soul to bliss did upward move, 
 I wander'd round the crystal walls above. 
 But found ih' eternal fence so steeply high, 
 That, when I mounted to the middle sky, 
 I flagg'd, and flatter'd down, and could not tly. 
 Then, from the battlements of th' heav'nly tow'r 
 A watchman angel bid me wail this hour ; 
 And told me I hud yet a task assign'd, 
 To warn that little pledge I left behind; 
 And to divert him, ere it were too late, 
 From crimes unknown, and errors of his fate. 
 
 Onct more I'll sec thee : tiion my charge is done, 
 Far hence, upon the Mountains of the Aloon, 
 Is my abode ; where lleav'n and nutun^ smile, 
 And strew with tlow'rs the socrct bed ol Nile. 
 Bloss'd souls are there relin'd and made more bright; 
 And, in the shades of lleav'n jireimrd for light. 
 Aliiiaii :. O lleav'n, how dark a riddlu's thy dcerco, 
 
 U'liieh bounds our wills, yet sivnus to leave them free. 
 Since thy r<jre-knowlcdge cannot be in vain, 
 Our choice nnist bo wh.'it thou didst first ordain. 
 Thus, like a captive in an isle confin'd. 
 Man w.ilks at lai-go, a pris'ncr of the mind." 
 
 The .lliiiivi::or in this play is decidedly a romance character, 
 beyond any even in Ccu'n'.illc: (tli"";-;!'^ hardly beyond Achilles in 
 Homer ; ) one who frightens a whole army with shouting. One of 
 the passages spoken by .\lmahide runs : 
 
 'W'licro siionld 1 liiul iln- lirr.rt tn sp-ak one word 
 Yuur vnico, .-ir, i> as kiUiiiL' :is yuur swurd 
 A-^ yiiu litnc li'il ill.' liLditniiiL,' of yuur eye. 
 .Sii Would \(iu ])lLM.--e to lay yuur tliundin- 'ly. 
 
 -if :<** * 
 
 Wiwv ]ia>>iiiii, like A Irigiil, su^ptTKis my pain: 
 It nie( Is. (I'crpow'r.--, and lieats mine back again: 
 But, as whin tide;- iigaiii>t tlir current (low,
 
 212 Dry den. 
 
 The native stream runs its own course below: 
 So, though your grief's possess the upper part, 
 My own have deeper channels in my heart." 
 
 There is an admirable specimen of Dryden's poetry in the 
 
 Annus Mirabilis j it is written and expressed in rich and stirring 
 
 language. 
 
 "Night came, but without darkness or repose, 
 
 A dismal picture of the general doom ; 
 Where souls distracted when the trumpet blows, 
 
 And half unready, with their bodies come. 
 Those who have homes, when home they do repair, 
 
 To a last lodging call their wandering friends : 
 Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care, 
 
 To look how near their own destruction tends. 
 
 Those who have none sit round where once it was. 
 And with full eyes each wonted room require ; 
 
 Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place, 
 
 As murdered men walk where they did expire. 
 
 Some stir up coals, and watch the vestal fire ; 
 
 Others, in vain from sight of ruin run ; 
 And, while through burning labyrinths they retire. 
 
 With loathing eyes repeat what they would shun. 
 
 The most, in fields, like herded beasts, lie down, 
 
 To dews obnoxious, on the grassy floor ; 
 And while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown. 
 
 Sad parents watch the remnants of their store. 
 While by the motion of the flames they guess 
 
 AVhat streets are buriiing now, and what arc near; 
 An infant, waking, to the paps woidd press, 
 
 And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear. 
 No thought can ease Ihem but their sovereign's care, 
 
 Whose praise the afflicted as their comfort sing ; 
 E'en those whom want migut drive to just despair. 
 
 Think life a blessing mider such a king, 
 
 Meantime he sadly suffers in tlieir grief. 
 
 Out-weeps an hermit, and out -priiys a saint ; 
 
 All the lung night he studies their relief. 
 
 How they may be supplied, and he may want, 
 
 'O God' said he, ihou patron of my days, 
 
 Guide of my youth in exile and dislrefs; 
 Who me, unfi'ie'nded, brought'st by wondrous w ays, 
 
 The king !om of my fathers to po.-scss: 
 'Be thou my judge, with what umvcaried cari.> 
 
 I since have laboured for my people'^ good , 
 To bind the bruises of a civil war. 
 
 And stop the issues of their wasting blood," "
 
 Dry den. 213 
 
 The numerous similes employed by Dryden throughout his works 
 are richly conceived, and elegantly expressed. They have always 
 struck me as being a peculiarly important feature in this poet's 
 writings. I might quote many more than those which are annexed 
 to this chapter, did space permit ; but the few I have given, are, 
 certainly, some of the most beautiful examples. 
 
 Boab. '^ As some fair tulip, by a storm opprest, 
 Shrinks up, and folds its silken arms to rest ; 
 And, bending to the blast, all pale and dead, 
 Hears, from within, the wind sing round its head : 
 So, shrouded up. your beauty disappears ; 
 Unveil, my love, and lay aside your fears. 
 The storm that caus'd your fright, is past and done. 
 
 Almah. So flow'rs peep out too soon, and miss the bun." 
 
 Now ask your life. 
 
 -'Tis gone, that busy thing 
 
 The soul, is packing up, and just on wing. 
 
 Like parting swallows when they seek the spring. 
 
 Like them, at its appointed time, it goes; 
 
 And flies to countries more unknown than those." 
 
 "As some I'aint, pilgrim, standing on tlie shore, 
 First views the torrent he would veiitui-e o'er ; 
 And then his inn upon the farther ground. 
 Loth to wado through, and lother to go round; 
 Then, dipping in his staff, does trial make, 
 Ifow deep it irf ; and, sighing, pulls it back: 
 Sometimes rrsolv'd to letcii his leajj : and then 
 Runs to the bank, but ihei-c stops short again. 
 
 So I at once 
 
 Both heav'nly faith, and human fear obey ; 
 And feel 1)elbre me in an unknown way, 
 For this blest voyage I witli joy pre})are; 
 Yet am asham'd to jjc a stranger there. " 
 
 " .Shake not liis hour-glas, when his hasty sand 
 Is ebbing to the last : 
 A little longer, yd n little longer. 
 And nature dro])^ him dowTi, wiihout your .-sin ; 
 Like mellow iVuit, without a winter-storm.'' 
 
 'No, i'aiuiarus ; I st.ilk about vour doors 
 Like a stiange >(>ul ujkjh llie SStygian hank--.
 
 214 Dryden. 
 
 Staying for waftage : O be thou my Charon, 
 And give nio a swift transportaiice to Elyeiuiu, 
 And fly with me to Cressida." 
 
 "Our loves, like mountains high above the cloiide, 
 Though winds and tempests beat their aged feet, 
 Their peaceful heads, nor storm, nor thunder know, 
 But scorn the threat'ning rack that rolls below." 
 
 "My joys are gloomy, but withal are great ; 
 Tiie lion, though ho sees the toils are set. 
 Yet, pinch'd with raging hunger, scours away, 
 Hunts in the face of danger all tjje day ; 
 At night, with sullen pleasures, grumbles o'er hia prey. 
 
 "Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray : 
 Who can tread sure on the smooth slippery way ? 
 Pleas'd witli the passage, we slide swiftly on : 
 And see the dangers which we cannot shun." 
 
 "I will; and yet 
 A kind of weight liangs lieavy at my heart ; 
 My flagging soul flies under hei* own pitch, 
 Like fowl in ;iir too damp, and lugs along, 
 As if she were a body in a body, 
 And not a mounting substance made of fire. 
 My senses too are dull and stupefied. 
 Their edge rebated ; sure some ill approaches, 
 And some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul. 
 To tell me fate's at hand. " 
 
 "^s when a sudden storm of hail and rain, 
 Beats to the ground the yet unbearded grain. 
 Think not the hopes of harvest are destroy'd. 
 On the flat fleld, and on the naked voiti; 
 The liglit unloaded stem, iVom tempest freed, 
 Will riiise the youthful honours of his head ; 
 And soon restor'd by native vigour, bear 
 The tinu'ly produel of the bounteous year. ' 
 
 "A mighty secrel laboui's in my soul, 
 And like a inishing stream breaks down the dam 
 This day must give it vent, it rests in you 
 To make it eiul in a li'inpestuous night, 
 Or in a glorious evening."
 
 Dryden. 216 
 
 " For what I see, or only think I see, 
 Is like a glimpse of moonshine, streak'd with red ; 
 A shuffled, sullen, and uncertain light, 
 Thiit dances through the clouds, and shuts again : 
 Then 'ware a rising tempest on the main. " 
 
 "And as the Indies were not found, before 
 Those rich perfumes, which, from the happy shore, 
 The winds upon their balmy wings convey 'd. 
 Whose guilty sweetness lirst their world betray'd ; 
 So by your counsels we arc brought to view 
 A rich and undiscover'd world in you. " 
 
 "As, where the lightning runs along the ground, 
 No husbandry can heal the blasting wound ; 
 Nor bladcd grass, nor bearded corn succeeds, 
 But scales of scurf and putrefaction breeds, 
 Such wars, such waste, such fiery tracks of dearth, 
 Their zeal has left, and such a teemless earth, " 
 
 "True love's a miser, so tenacious grown. 
 He weighs to the least grain of what's his own. 
 More delicate than lionour's nicest sense : 
 Neither to give nor take the least offence. 
 With, or without you, I can have no rest: 
 What shall I do? you're lodged within my breast 
 Your image never never will be thence displac'd, 
 But there it lies, stabb'd, mangled, and defac'd," 
 
 "Dim as the borrowed beams oF moon and stars. 
 
 To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers, 
 
 Is reason to the soul : and, as on higli. 
 
 Those rolling fires discover but the sky, 
 
 Not light us here ; so rras )n's gliniiueriMg ray 
 
 Was lent, not to assure our douhlful way. 
 
 But guide us upward to a bettor day. 
 
 And as those nightly t;ip m-s disappear 
 
 When day's brigiit lord useeiuls our iieinisphcro ; 
 
 So pale grows reason at religion's siglit ; 
 
 So dies, and so dissolves in supcrmit ral lij^bt." 
 
 "As from somi> steep and ilroiulful precipice, 
 The friglitnd travclkr cast:, down his eyes, 
 And sees tin' ocean at so great a distance, 
 It looks as it' the s'kics were sun1<. tx'josv liini. 
 Vet it' some ncighb'ring siirub (how weak soe'cr)
 
 216 Dry den. 
 
 Peeps up, his willing eyes stop gladly there, 
 And seem to ease themselves, and rest upon it : 
 So in my desp'rate state, each little comfort 
 Pi-eserves me from despair." 
 
 "A change so swift what heart did ever feel ! 
 It rush'd upon me like a mighty stream. 
 And bore me in a moment far from shore, 
 I've lov'd away myself; in one short hour 
 Already am I gone an age of passion, 
 Was it his youth, his valour, or success? 
 These might perhaps l)e found in other men, 
 'Twas that respect, that awful homage paid me, 
 That fearful love which trembled in his eyes, 
 And with a silent eartliquake shook his soul. 
 Eut, when he spoke, what tender words he said I 
 So softly, that, like flakes of feather'd snow. 
 They melted as they i'ell. " 
 
 "I feel my love to Philocles within me. 
 Shrink, and pull back my heart from this hard trial, 
 But it must be, when glory says it must. 
 As children wading from some river's bank, 
 First try the water, with their tender feet, 
 Then shudd'ring up with cold, step back again. 
 And straight a little further venture on. 
 Till at last, they plunge into the dee]), 
 And pass at once, what they were doubting long. ' 
 
 "This love, that never C(juld my youth engage, 
 Peeps out his coward head to dare my age. 
 Where hast thou been thus long, thou sleeping form, 
 Thou wak'st, like drowsy seamen, in a storm. 
 A sullen hovu* thou clioosest for thy birth : 
 My love shoots up in tempests, as the earth 
 Is stirr'd and loosen'd in a blust'ring wind. 
 Whose blasts to waiting flowers her womb unbind." 
 
 "As when some great and gracious monarch dies, 
 Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise 
 Among the sad attendants ; then the sound 
 Soon gathers voice, and spreads (lie news around. 
 Through town aiul country, till the di-eadful blast 
 Is blown to distant c(jloni('s at last- ; 
 Who, then, pi-rhaps, vvere oiT'ring vows in vain, 
 For his long life, or for his happy reign."
 
 Pope. 217 
 
 "As precious gums are not for lasting Are, 
 They but perfume the temple, and expire: 
 So was she soon exluil'd, and vanish'd hence ; 
 A short sweet odour, of a vast expense : 
 She vanish'd, wo can scarcely say she died ; 
 For but a now did heaven and earth divide : 
 She pass'd serenely with a single breath ; 
 This moment perfect health, the next was death : 
 One sigli did her eternal bliss assure; 
 So little i)enance needs, wlien souls are almost pure. 
 As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue ; 
 Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new ; 
 So close they follow, such wild order keep. 
 We think ourselves awake, and are asleep : 
 So softly death succeeded life in lier : 
 She did hut dream of heav'n, and she was there. 
 
 No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise; 
 ITer soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice ; 
 As an old friend is bcckon'd to a feast. 
 And treated like a long-familiar guest. 
 Ho took her as lie found, but found her so, 
 As one in hourly readiness to go. " 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 Pope. "Neither time, nor distance, nor age," Byron wrote, "can 
 ever diminish my veneration for him, who is the great moral poet 
 of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of exis- 
 tence. The delight of my boyhood, the study of my manhood, 
 perhaps (if allowed to me to attain to it),l:e may be the consolation 
 of my old age. His poetry is the book of life. Without canting and 
 yet without neglecting religion, he has assembled all that a good 
 and a great man can gather together of moral wisdom, clothed in 
 consummate beauty.'' 
 
 Perliaps this avalanche of enthusiasm in Byron may be over- 
 stretched, yet it truly e\])resbes the genius and power of Pope. He 
 is himself a literature. He is the foremost of our classical poets, 
 that is, if the term be correctly applied to a school which sought in 
 
 I C.
 
 218 Pope. 
 
 the masterpieces of ancient times, the starting-point of their own 
 literary developement. Pope, however, was less under the influence 
 of French and other models than Dryden, although the influence 
 of the latter exerted itself in its turn upon him. 
 
 This poet may be considered more a critic, satirist, and fine 
 writer than a poet. He scarcely ever touches any of the greater 
 passions. Still, everything that Pope wrote in verse, was invariably, 
 to use a homely term, good as far as it went. The Pastorals, the 
 Messiah, and Windsor Forest, continue to give the pleasure which 
 finished copies of verse, can never fail to afford to an educated ear. 
 Take for instance the following passage : 
 
 "Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears : 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply, 
 The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
 Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ! 
 Sink down ye mountains, and ye valleys rise, 
 With heads declined, ye cedars homage pay ; 
 Be smootji ye rocks, ye rapid floods give way ! 
 The .Saviour comes I by ancient bards foretold : 
 Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold I 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
 And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 And bid new music charm the unfolding ear : 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
 No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear, 
 From every face he wipes off every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
 And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound." 
 
 Or for a passage immediately opposite in description and char- 
 acter, the following lines from Windsor Forest : 
 
 "See! from the brake the whirring pheasant ppring9 
 And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: 
 Short is his joy ; lie I'eels the fiery woimd, 
 Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. 
 Ah ! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, 
 His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes. 
 The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, 
 Ilis p.aintod wings, and breast that flames with gold ? 
 
 Nor yet, -whon moist Arcturus clouds the sky, 
 The woods ar,d fields their pleasing toils deny. 
 To plains with wcU-breatlied beagles we repair,
 
 Pope. 219 
 
 And trace the mazes of the circling hare : 
 (Beasts, urged by us, their fellow beasts pursue, 
 And learn of man each other to undo.) 
 With slaught'ring guns the unwearied fowler roves, 
 When frosts have whitened all the naked groves ; 
 Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade, 
 And lonely woodcocks liaunt tlie watery glade. 
 IIo lifts the tube, and levels with his eye ; 
 Straight a short thunder brealis the frozen sky : 
 Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath. 
 The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death : 
 Oft, as the mounting larks tlieir notes prepare, 
 They fall, and leave their little lives in air. 
 
 In genial spring, beneath the quivering sliadc, 
 Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead. 
 The patient fisher takes his silent stand. 
 Intent, his angle trembling in his hand : 
 With looks immoved, he ]ioj)o.s the scaly breed, 
 And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 
 Our plenteous streams a various race supply, 
 Tlie bright-eyed percli with fin of Tyriau's dye, 
 The silvpi- eel, in sliining volumes rolled, 
 The yellow cary, iti scales bodroppod witii gold. 
 Swift trouts. diversified with crimson stains. 
 And pikes, tlio tyrants of the watery plains." 
 
 In neither the lyric, dramatic, or epic poetry of this writer, do we 
 see marked out any original power, or species of poetical composi- 
 tion signally his own. The first two of these he barely attempted ; 
 his Ode on St. Cecilia's day is only a feeble duplicate of Drydcn. 
 It may be found at the end of the book. For epic poetry he seems 
 to have lacked the historic sense. It is in the didactic poety of 
 Pope, that he is truly master. The /'.wwiy o)i Critiiisin, as a juve- 
 nile eftbrt, is marvellously finished; and succeeds in enforcing many 
 truths in a form in which the incisivcncss has rarely been surpassed. 
 It might l)e rend by many o! tlic critics of the present day with 
 considerable advantage. 
 
 "Of all the C"au-c> wliicli con-piic to lilind 
 Man's tiling juii^'juLni. mul nii-^r.i>ie the mind, 
 Wliat llic Weak licail with ^l^l)IlL;L^l \i\\\-^ niks. 
 Is PriJi-, till- never failin;.' voii.e nf rimj,-,. 
 \Vliate\er nal;;)-.' has in ui.rlh dnrKd, 
 She Llivc- ill lai:'^: iiciiiils ol' nceiiful [-.ride ; 
 Vuv a^ i;i iHidi. s. lliu^ in s.iu!.-. ue tin.! 
 Wliai wauls in liloo/i an^l spii iis, ^\\e!^l wiih win.i: 
 I'litle, where wii Uil>, -Icp.- in to nui deleiice,
 
 220 Pope. 
 
 And fills up all the mighty Void of sense. 
 If once right reason drives tliat cloud away, 
 Truth breaks upon us with resistless day, 
 Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, 
 Make use of ev'ry friend, and ev'ry foe. 
 
 A little learning is a dang'rous tiling ; 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 
 Their shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
 And drinking largely sobers us again. 
 Fir'd at first sight w^ith what the Muse imparts, 
 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, 
 While from the bounded level of our mind, 
 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind 
 But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise 
 New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
 So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try, 
 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread tjie sky, 
 Th' eternal snows appear already past, 
 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last ; 
 But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey 
 The growing labours of the lengthen'd way, 
 Th' increasing prospects tires our wand'riiig eyes, 
 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 
 
 A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit 
 With the same spirit that its author writ : 
 Survey the whole nor seek slight faults to find 
 Whei'e nature moves, and rajiture warms the mind; 
 Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, 
 The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd witli Wit. 
 But in such lays as neitlier ebb, nor flow, 
 Correctly cold, and regularly low, 
 Tliat slumning faults, one quiet tenour keep : 
 We cannot blame indeed but we may sleep. 
 In wit, as nature, what afiects our hearts 
 Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts, 
 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call. 
 But the joint force and full result of all. 
 Thus then we view so)ue well proportion'd dome, 
 (Tlie world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome !) 
 No single pnrts unequally surprize, 
 All comes united to th' admiring eyes . 
 No monstrous height, or breadth, or lengih appear; 
 The Wliole at once is liold, and regular. 
 
 Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see. 
 Thinks wliat ne'er was. nor is, nor e er sliail be. 
 In ev'ry work regard the wi-iter's End, 
 Since none can conq)ass more tlian they intend : 
 And if tlie means be just, the conduct true. 
 Applause, in s])ite of trivial faults, is due ; 
 As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
 
 Pope, 22l 
 
 T' avoid great errors, must the less commit : 
 Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays, 
 For not to know some trifles is a praise. 
 Most Critics, fond of some snbserviant art, 
 Still make the whole depend upon a part : 
 They talk of principles, but notions prize, 
 And all to one lov'd Folly sacrifice. 
 
 *)(* * * 
 
 Sonio to Coiiccil alone their taste confine, 
 
 And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line ; 
 
 I'leas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; 
 
 One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. 
 
 Poets like painters, thus, unikill'd to trace 
 
 The naked nature and the living grace, 
 
 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, 
 
 And hide with ornaments their want of art. 
 
 True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, 
 
 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd. 
 
 Something whose truth convinc'd at sight wcfiiied, 
 
 Thill gives us back the image of our mind. 
 
 As sliados more sweetly recommend the light, 
 
 So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 
 
 For works may have more wit tiian does 'em good, 
 
 As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. 
 
 Others for Language all their care express. 
 
 And value books, as women men, for Dress: 
 
 Tiieir praise is still, the Style is excellent : 
 
 Tlie Sense, they iuunbly take upon content. 
 
 Words are like leaves ; and where they mo.si aljound, 
 
 Much fruit of .sense beneath is rarely found. 
 
 False clocjuence, lilvo the prismatic glass, 
 
 Its gaudy coloiu-s spreads on ev'i-y {)laee ; 
 
 The lace of Nature ue no more siuvey. 
 
 All glares alike, without distinction gay : 
 
 liut true cxprcssi(m, likf th' unchanging Sun, 
 
 (Jlears and improves wliatc'er it shines upon. 
 
 It gilds all ()l)j('cts. but it alters none. 
 
 J^^xpression is Ihe dress ol' thouulit , and still 
 
 Appears more decent, as ninre snitaiile; 
 
 A vile coneeit in pompons wurils cxpros'd. 
 
 Is liko a clown in i-('i;:il purple di-essd: 
 
 Fordiirrent Sl\lcs with diU'rcnt s\iliitcls >ori. 
 
 As sevei'al L''irbs willi connli-y. town, and I'oui't. 
 
 Sonu: by old woi'ds to |:iiiir hiivc mad" preti lue. 
 
 Ancients in piii-as,'. nii-ic niulrrns in thcii- sense ; 
 
 !!>uch hiliourd no! hi;:;'~. in so ~li-;in;M' -i ~tUe. 
 
 Ania/.'' ill' unji'arn '!. and make 'ho Icai'ncd .~mile. 
 
 Fnlnel.-.\-, as Fnn-^o-. > in ili,. play, 
 
 Tiiese sparks with awl^ward vanity displny 
 
 ^\ hat the line ueiuleman wore yesterday ;
 
 222 Pope. 
 
 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 
 
 So ape our grandsires, in their doublets drest. 
 
 In woi-ds, as fashions, the same rule will liold ; 
 
 Alike fantastic, if too new, or old : 
 
 Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 
 
 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 
 
 But most by Numbers judge a Poet's song ; 
 And smooth or rough; with them is right or wrong : 
 In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, 
 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 
 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
 Not oiend their minds ; as some to Church repair, 
 Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
 These equal syllables alone require, 
 Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 
 While expletives their feeble aid to join ; 
 And ton low words oft creep in one dull line. 
 While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes, 
 With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 
 Wheree'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' 
 In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees :' 
 If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' 
 The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep,' 
 Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
 With some unmeaning tiling they call a thought, 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song 
 That, like a wounded snalie, drags its i-low length along 
 Leave such to tune their own diiil rhymes, and know, 
 What's roundiy smoolh or languishly slow ; 
 And praise tho easy vigour of a line, 
 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. 
 True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. 
 As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 
 'Tis not enough no harshness gives olFence, 
 The sound must seem an Echo to the sense : 
 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numljcrs flows, 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 The hoarse, rough verse .should like the torrent roar. 
 When Ajax strives some I'ock's vast weight to throw, 
 The line too labours, and the words inovc slow, 
 Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
 Flies o'er th' inibendiug com. and skims along the main 
 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays sui'prize, 
 And bid altei-nate passions fall and rise ! 
 While, at each change, the son of Libyan .love. 
 Now burns with glory, and then melts with lo\e, 
 Now his fierce eyes wit'i sparkling fury glow. 
 Now sigh.-i steal out. and tears begin to flow: 
 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
 
 Pope. 223 
 
 And the world's victor stood subdii'd by sound ! 
 Tlip pow'r of Music all our lioarts allow, 
 And wliat Timotlieus was, is Drydek now. 
 
 Avoid cxh-enics ; and shun the fault of such, 
 Who still are pleas'd too littio or too much. 
 As ev'rv tritlo scorn to take offence, 
 Tliat always shows great pride, or littio sense ; 
 Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, 
 Which nauseate all, and nothing can digrst. 
 Yet let not each gay Turn thy rapture move ; 
 For Fools admire, but men of sense approve : 
 As thintfs seem largo wliicii we thro' mists descry, 
 Dulness is ever ajit to magnify. 
 
 Some foreign writers, some our own despise. 
 The Ancients only, or the Moderns pi-ize. 
 Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd. 
 To one small sect, and all are damn'd ))esidp. 
 Meanly they sock the blessing to confine. 
 And force tJiat sun but on a part to shine, 
 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 
 ]jut ri])cns spirits in cold nortiicrn climes; 
 Which from the first has s'lone on ages past. 
 Enlights tho present, and sliall warm the last ; 
 Tho' each may feel increases and decays. 
 And see now clearer and now darker days. 
 Eegard not then if Wit be old or new. 
 But blame tho false, and value still tlic true. 
 
 Some ne'er advance a Judgment of Ihcir own, 
 But catch the sjireading notion of tlio Town ; 
 They reason and conclude by precedent, 
 And own stole nonsense which tliey ne'er invent. 
 Some judge of autliors' names, not works, and tlien 
 Nor praise nor blame tlie writings, but the men. 
 Of all this servile herd tho worst is he, 
 That in proud dulness joins with Quality, 
 A constant Critic at tho great man's board, 
 To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. 
 What woful stuff (his madrigal would be, 
 In s<nno starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me? 
 But let a Lord onc^ own the liap|)y lines. 
 IIow tho wit brightens ! how tho style refines.' 
 Before his sacred name fiic^ ev'ry fanlf. 
 And each exalted stanza teems with thought. 
 
 Be tliou the fir~t true nuM-it to befriend ; 
 Ilisjiraise is lo-t, who stiiys till all Ci)mmend, 
 Sh(nt is the dale, al;is, of modern rh\mes, 
 .\nd 'lis but jus* to let tliem live betimes. 
 No longer now that golden age a]i]>cars. 
 When Patriarch-wits surviv'il a Ihousanil years :
 
 224 Pope. 
 
 Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, 
 And bare three-score is all ev'n that can boast, 
 Our sons their father's failing language see, 
 And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. 
 So when the faithful pencil has design'd, 
 Some bright Idea of the master's mind. 
 Where a new world leaps out at his command, 
 And ready nature waits upon his hand. 
 When the ripe colours soften and unite. 
 And sweetly melt into just shade and light ; 
 When mellowing years their full perfection gives, 
 And each bold figure just begins to live, 
 The treacli'rous colours the fair art betray. 
 And all the bright creation fades away !" 
 
 Again in the Essay on Man Pope succeeds; by his mastery of 
 
 form, and in producing a string of poetic proverbs which will serve 
 
 for many a future text. In the third Epistle we read : 
 
 "Thus then the man the voice of nature spake 
 
 Go, from the Creatures thy instructions take : 
 
 Learn from the birds what food the tliickets yield ; 
 
 Learn from the beasts the physic of the field ; 
 
 Tliy arts of building from the bee receive ; 
 
 Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave ; 
 
 Learn of the little Nautilus to sail, 
 
 Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. 
 
 Here too all forms of social union find. 
 
 And hence let reason, late, instruct Mankind : 
 
 Here subterranean works and cities see ; 
 
 There towns aerial on the waving tree. 
 
 Learn each small people's genius, policies, 
 
 The Ant's republic, and the realm of bees ; 
 
 How those in common all their wealth bestow. 
 
 And anarchy without confusion know ; 
 
 And tlicse for ever, though a monarch reign, 
 
 Tlieir separate cells and properties maintain. 
 
 Mark what unwearied laws preserve each state, 
 
 Laws wise as nature, and as fixed as fate. 
 
 In vain they reason finer webs shall draw. 
 
 Entangled justice in her net of law, 
 
 And right, too rigid, harden into wrong ; 
 
 Still for tlie strong too weak, the weak too strong. 
 
 Vet go I and thus o'er all the creatures sway, 
 
 Thus let the wiser make the rest obey ; 
 
 And, foj- those arts mere instinct could afford, 
 
 Be crowned as monarclis, or as gods adored. " 
 
 Or for another example the following passage from the Fourth 
 Epistle :
 
 Pope. 
 
 " What makes all physical or moral ill? 
 There deviates nature, and here wanders will. 
 God sends not ill ; if rightly understood, 
 Or partial ill is universal good, 
 Or change admits, or nature lets it fall. 
 Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. 
 We just as wisely might of heaven complain, 
 That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, 
 As that the virtuous son is ill at ease. 
 When his lewd father gave the dire disease. 
 Think we, like some weak prince, the Eternal Cause 
 Prone for his favorites to reverse his laws? 
 
 Shall burning jEtna, if ^ sage requires, 
 Forget to thunder, and recall her fires ? 
 On air or sea new motions be imprest, 
 Oh, blameless Bethel ! to relieve thy breast ? 
 When the loose mountain trembles from on high. 
 
 Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? 
 
 Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, 
 For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall ? 
 But still this world (so fitted for the knave) 
 
 Contents us not. A better shall we have ? 
 
 A kingdom of the just then let it be : 
 
 But first consider how those just agree. 
 
 The good must merit God's peculiar care ; 
 
 But who, but God, can tell us who they are? 
 
 One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell ; 
 
 Another deems him instrument of hell ; 
 
 If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod, 
 
 This cries there is, and that, there is no God. 
 
 What shocks one part will edify the rest. 
 
 Nor with one system can they all be blest. 
 
 The very best will variously incline, 
 
 And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. 
 
 Whatever is, is right. This world, 'tis true, 
 
 Was made for Cresar but for Titus too: 
 
 And which more blest? who chained his country, Bay, 
 
 Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day? 
 
 'But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed.' 
 
 What then ? Is the reward of virtue-bread ? 
 
 That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil ; 
 
 The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil. 
 
 The knave deserves it, when he tempts the main. 
 
 Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. 
 
 Tlie good man may be weak, he indolent ; 
 
 Nor is liis claim to plenty, but content. 
 
 But grant hiui riches, your demand is o'er? 
 
 'No shall the good want bealth,the good want power?' 
 
 Add health, and power, and every earthly thing, 
 
 ' Why bounded power? why private ? why no king?' 
 
 225 
 
 I D.
 
 226 Pope. 
 
 Nay, why external for internal given ? 
 Why is not man a god, and earti) a heaven ? 
 Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive 
 God gives enough, while he has more to give : 
 Immense the ])Ower, immense were the demand ; 
 Say, at what part of nature will they stand. 
 
 What nothing earl hly gives, or can destroy, 
 The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy 
 Is virtue's prize : A better would you fix ? 
 Then give humility a coach and six, 
 Justice a conqueror's sword, or truth a gown, 
 Or public spirit its great cure, a crown. 
 Weak, foolish man ! will Heaven reward us there 
 With the same trash mnd mortals wish for here? 
 The boy and man an individual makes, 
 Yet sighest thou now for apples and for cakes ? 
 Go, like the Indian, in another life 
 Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife : 
 As well as dream such trifles are assigned, 
 As toys and empires, for a god-like mind. 
 Rewards, that either would to virtue bring 
 No joy, or be destructive of the thing ; 
 How oft by these at sixty are undone 
 The virtues of a saint at twenty-one ! 
 To whom can riches give repute, or trust. 
 Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? 
 Judges and Senators, have been bought for gold. 
 Esteem and love were never to bo sold, 
 fool I to think God hates the worthy mind. 
 The lover and the love of human-kind. 
 Whoso life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, 
 Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. " 
 
 Pope's satirical poetry is also didactic in its aim. It has a posi- 
 tive purpose ; it contrasts excellence and virtue with dulness and 
 vice ; and its examples are illustrations of its precepts, And in this 
 again Pope is master: his ability in representing types of character 
 is unsurpassed. The men and women of his Satires and Epistles, 
 his Atticus and Atossa, and Sapho and Sporus, are real types, 
 whether they be more or less faithful portraits of Addison and the 
 old Duchess : of Lady Mary and Lord Hervey. Pope's creative 
 power in this respect surpasses that of the Roman satirists, and 
 leaves Dryden himself behind. 
 
 In poetic form, Pope was master. He perfected an English 
 metre, the heroic couplet, which, for the purpose of didactic and 
 satirical poetry, has since remained the chosen vehicle of expression
 
 Pope 227 
 
 in our language. To his command over this metre he had attained 
 rapidly, though not at once. Whether Pope could have attained 
 to equal mastery over other metres, seems an idle question ; for 
 none could have equally suited the peculiarity of his genius. The 
 heroic couplet and no other form of verse, was that adapted to 
 the genius of Pope. The clear conception of a thought was in 
 each case his first step ; next came the indefatigable labour of con- 
 densing and compressing it into the form in which its expression, 
 most finished in form, is at the same time most finished in memory. 
 Thus he, as it were, engraved ideas ; and his poems are full of 
 those couplets which can cleanly and without damage to themselves, 
 be taken out of their setting. In versification, Pope was a pupil of 
 Dryden, but he far surpassed his master. Dryden's verse is often 
 slovenly, and abounds in weak lines: in Pope there is never a sylla- 
 ble, hardly ever a line, too much. 
 
 As the poet of an artificial age, and an artificial life, we may be 
 proud of Pope, under such circumstances an artificial poet is the 
 truest poet attainable ; his very artificiality of matter and style is 
 his authentication as poet. This may sound like a paradox, yet it 
 is hardly more paradoxical than the statement that a gold coin is 
 equally gold, whether stamped with the effigy of Alexander the 
 Great, or of Louis Quinze ; of Cromwell or of Charles the Second ; 
 of Napoleon the First, or Napoleon the third. The only condition 
 then, on which we can have real poets in an artificial age, is that 
 they should also be in a measure artificial ; and the age in which 
 Pope lived, was to him his atmosphere, partly his nature. That 
 he should have been as natural as Theocritus, as terrible as 
 yEschylus, as austere as Lucretius, as supernatural as Dante, as 
 knightly as Chaucer, as noble as Milton, was simjjly impossible; 
 nay, had it even been possible, such a result would in him have been 
 in some degree spurious ; for it could only have ensued from his 
 prepcnsely and pertinaciously goini; out of his .igc and of himself, 
 and that is not the process which makes a j)oct or ever did make 
 one. For this reason, let US tlien rest contentedly in the conviction 
 that Pope was a poet the only son of poet that we wcie likely to
 
 ^28 Prior. 
 
 get out of the reigns of Anne and George the First. 
 
 Pope may be determined the poet of the Understanding, not 
 merely in the limited, though strictly true acceptation in which 
 Johnson says that good sense was the fundamental principle of his 
 intellect, but in something of the same spirit in which Kent distin- 
 guishes the Understanding, as the faculty for knowledge in man, 
 from the Reason, as the primary, intuitional, conguitive power. 
 The range of the author of the Rape of the Lock, the Eloise to 
 Abelard, the Duticiad, and Essay on Man, and the Homeric trans- 
 lations was certainly not a narrow one, though it appears to the 
 reader more restricted than it really is, seeing that the writer passed 
 all his subject-matter through a somewhat uniform and in expan- 
 sive mould of execution : but alike in these several excellent works, 
 the Understanding predominates everything is brought to the 
 judging and comparing mind. We can all say, and say with the 
 utmost truth, that a great creative and emotional nature has a 
 larger share in what is highest in poesy: the riches and strength of 
 Pope were not in that direction It was his faculty to discern, 
 analyse, and express; and this he did with admirable force of mind 
 and of speech ; and with amplest possession and skilfullest use of 
 such means of poetry as were more specially germane to his time. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 Prior. The works of Prior who was really the only poet of his 
 time, consist of that rapid, picturesque narrative kind, which is 
 mixed up with wit and nai'vate, . There is combined in his poetry, 
 perhaps, more than any other poet, that airiness and extreme 
 sweetness, which renders all poetry pleasing. He is a peculiarly 
 interesting writer, from the situation which he occupies in the his- 
 tory of literature, coming between Dryden and Pope. Prior has
 
 Prior. 229 
 
 also peculiarity with respect to metre. He tells us that our rhyming 
 heroic measure, as Dryden perfected it, is too confined, "it cuts off 
 the sense at the end of every first line, which must always rhyme 
 to the next following ; and, consequently produces too frequently 
 an identity in the sound, and brings every couplet to the point of 
 an epigram." 
 
 Upon this principle. Prior acted, running his verses and couplets 
 into one another, so as to produce not only variety and spirit, but 
 the extreme of harmony. In his Solomon, particularly, there are 
 several remarkable passages. 
 
 "Tell me, ye studious, who pretend to see 
 Far into Nature's bosom, whence tlie bee 
 Was first inform'd her vent'rous flight to steer 
 Througli trackless paths, and an abyss of air. 
 Whence she avoids the slimy marsh and knows 
 The fertile hills, where sweeter herbage grows, 
 And honey-making flow'rs their op'ning buds disclose. 
 IIow from the thicken'd mist, and setting sun 
 Finds she, the labour ol" her day is done ? 
 Who taught her against winds and rains to strive, 
 To bring her burden to the certain hive. 
 And through the liquid fields again to pass, 
 Duteous, and heark'ning to the sounding brass. 
 
 * * * * -x- * 
 
 This Alpha and Omega, first and last, 
 Who, like the potter, in a mould has cast 
 The world's great fame, commanding it to be 
 Such as the eyes of sense and reason see ; 
 Yet if he wills, may change or spoil the whole ; 
 May take yon beauteous, mystic, starry roll, 
 And burn it like a useless parchment scroll ; 
 May from its basis in one moment pour 
 
 This melted earth 
 
 Like liquid metal, and like burning ore ; 
 
 Who, sole in pow'r, at the beginning said, 
 
 Let sea, and air, and earth, and hoav'n be made, 
 
 And it was so and when he shall ordain 
 
 In otlier sort, has but to speak again, 
 And they shall be no more : of this great theme, 
 This glorious, lialli)w'd, everlasting name, 
 ThisUud, I would (liioourse. " 
 
 In his earlier poem, Hciny and /uiiiiiit, these passages do not 
 
 so mucli occur. This practice is curious when compared to Pope, 
 
 who, as I have already said, pulled in exactly the opposite direction,
 
 230 Pnor 
 
 and condensed his ideas and thoughts into a single couplet, so 
 that they could almost be moved without injury to the general 
 work. In the use of parenthesis, Prior is also remarkably natural 
 and elegant. 
 
 In the later works of this poet we can see a disposition to imitate 
 the French, of which style he ultimately became a great follower. 
 The elegance and lightness of some of his smaller pieces no French 
 writer can surpass. His imitation of Adrian's verses to his soul 
 is not a little superior to that of Fontenelle : 
 
 "Poor little, pretty, flutt'ring thing, 
 
 Must we no longer live together? 
 And must thou prune thy trembling wing. 
 
 To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither ? 
 Thy hum'rouB vein, thy pleasing folly, 
 
 Lies all neglected, all forgot : 
 And pensive, wav'ring melancholy, 
 
 Thou dread'st, and hop'st thou know'st not what." 
 
 He wrote one very elegant little stanza in French, in a company, 
 where they sung in rotation, on the burden "Bannissons la melan- 
 cholic," and when it came to his turn to sing after the performance 
 of a young lady who sat next him. 
 
 " Mais cette voix, et ces beaux yeux. 
 Font Cupidon trop dangereux, 
 Et je sinistriste quand je crie 
 'Bannissons la melancholie.'" 
 
 One may see this resemblance also in the verses written on 
 
 his own birth-day, 
 
 "I, my dear, was born to-day, 
 
 So all my jolly comrades say ; 
 
 They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, 
 
 And ask to celebrate my birth : 
 
 Little, alas ! my comrades know, 
 
 That I was born to pain and woe ; 
 
 To thy denial, to thy scorn ; 
 
 Better I had ne'er been born, 
 
 I wish to die e'en whilst I say, 
 
 I, my dear, was born to-day. 
 
 I, my dear, was born to day. 
 
 Shall I salute the rising ray? 
 
 Well-spring of all my joy and wo, 
 
 Clotilda, thou alone dost know ; 
 
 Shall the wreath surround my hair? 
 
 Or shall the music please my ear ;
 
 Prior. 231 
 
 Shall I my comrades' mirth receive, 
 And bless my birth, and wish to live? 
 Then let me see great Venus chase, 
 Imperious anger from tliy fiice ; 
 Then let me hear thee smiling say, 
 ThoUj my dear, was born to day. " 
 
 Prior did not possess any of that elevation of mind or manliness 
 
 of spirit which shows itself in Dryden. In his lighter piece* it is 
 
 from Swift, rather than Pope that we have to distinguish him. 
 
 I believe we may safely claim for him the originality, as between 
 
 them, in point of date. As to merit. Swift is harder and more 
 
 exact : Prior much more easy, natural, gentlemanlike, good-natured, 
 
 and pleasant. He was familiar with the epigrams, as they are 
 
 called, of the Greeks, at School : probably cultivated their taste, 
 
 and translated a few of them very well. Some of his own Epigrams 
 
 are very interesting : 
 
 "To John I owed great obligation ; 
 
 But John unhappily thought fit 
 To publish it to all the nation : 
 
 Sure John and I are more than quit." 
 
 " Yes, every poet is a fool . 
 
 By demonstration Ned can show it. 
 Happy, could Ned's iuTorted rule 
 
 Prove every fool to be a poet," 
 
 "Thy nags, the leanest things alive, 
 So very hard thou lov"st to drive, 
 I heard thy anxious coachman say, 
 It costs thee more in whips, than hay. " 
 
 His Henry and Emma is beautifully and elegantly written, and 
 contains constant bursts of true and poetical feeling. The plot, 
 which is founded on an old Englisli poem, llie Nut-l>ro7un Maid, 
 is beautifully laid down and exemplified. 
 
 I may conclude this poet, by quoting one or two passages from 
 Solomon which is undoubtedly Prior's finest work :- 
 ' l!\it () I ere yet orii;inal man was made, 
 Ere the foundation.s of tliis earth were laid 
 It was, opponent to our ((arch, ordain'd. 
 That joy, still sought, should never be attain'd.
 
 232 Priof, 
 
 This, sad experience cites me to reveal ; 
 And what I dictate, is from what I (eel. 
 
 Born as I was, great David's fav'rite son, 
 Dear to my people, on the Hebrevr throne 
 Sublime, my court with Ophir's treasures blest. 
 My name extended to the farthest east, 
 My body clolh'd with ev'ry outward grace, 
 Strength in my limbs, and beauty in my face, 
 My sliining thought with fruitful notions crown'd, 
 Quick my invention, and my judgment sound. 
 Arise, (I commun'd with myself), arise ; 
 Think, to be happy, to be great, be wise ; 
 Content of spirit must from science flow, 
 For 'tis a godlike attribute, to know, 
 
 I said, and sent my edict through the land: 
 Around my throne the letter'd rabbins stand. 
 Historic leaves resolve, long volumes spread, 
 The whole discoursing, as the younger read : 
 Attent I heard, propos'd my doubts, and said : 
 
 The vegetable world, each plant and tree, 
 Its seed, its name, its nature, its degree, 
 I am allow'd, as fame reports, to know ; 
 From the fair cedar, on the craggy brow 
 Of Lebanon nodding supremely tall : 
 Yet just, and conscious to myself, I find 
 A thousand doubts oppose the searching mind. 
 
 I know not why the beech delights the glade 
 With boughs extended, and a rounder shade, 
 Whilst tow'ring firs in conic forms arise, 
 And with a pointed spear divide the skies : 
 Nor why, again, the changing oak should shed 
 The yearly honour of his stately head ; 
 While the distinguish'd yew is ever seen, 
 Unchang'd his branch, and permanent his green. 
 Wanting the sun, why does the caltha fade ? 
 Why does the crypress flourish in the shade? 
 The fig and date, why love they to remain 
 In middle station, and an even plain. 
 While in the lower marsh the gourd is found, 
 And while the hill with olive-shade is ci-own'd ? 
 Why does one climate and one soil, endue 
 The blushing poppy with a crimson hue. 
 Yet leave the lily pale, and tinge the violet blue? 
 Why does the fond carnation love to shoot 
 A various colour from one parent root, 
 While the fantastic tulip strives to break 
 In twofold beauty, and a parted streak ? 
 The turning jasmine, and the blushing rose, 
 With lavish grace their morning scents disclose ; 
 The smelling tub-rose and jonquil declare
 
 Prior. 233 
 
 The stronger impulse of an ev'ning air. 
 
 Whence has tlie tree (resolve me) or the flow'r 
 
 A various instinct, or a dilTrent pow'r? 
 
 Why should one earth, one clime, one stream, otic breatli 
 
 Kaise this to st.rength, and sicken that to deatli ? 
 
 Whence docs it happen, that the plant, which well 
 We name (lie sensitive, should move and feel ? 
 Whence know her leaves to answer her command. 
 And with quick liorror fly the neighb'ring hand ? 
 
 Along the sunny bank, or wat'ry mead. 
 Ten tliousand stalks their various blossoms spread: 
 Peaceful and lowly in their native soil, 
 They neither know to spin, nor care to toil ; 
 Yet with conf'ess'd magnificence deride 
 Our vile attire, and impotence of pride. 
 The cowslip smiles, in brighter yellow dress'd 
 Than that which veils the nubile virgin's breast, 
 A fairer red stands blushing in the rose. 
 Than that which on the bridegroom's vestment flows. 
 Take but the humblest lily of llie field, 
 And, if our pride will to our reason yield, 
 It must, by sure comparison, be shown 
 That (in the regal seat great David's son, 
 Array'd. in all his rdbes, and types of pow'r, 
 Shines with less glory than that simple flow'r. 
 
 Of fishes next, my friends, I would inquire, 
 How I lie mute race engender, or respire ; 
 From the small fry tliat glide on Jordan's stream 
 UnmarkM, a nudtitude without a name, 
 To that Leviatban, who f)'er tlie seas 
 Immense rolls onward his iin()etuous ways 
 And mucks the wind, and in the tempest plays. 
 Ilow they in warlike bands march greatly forth 
 From freezing waters, and the colder north. 
 To southern climes directing tluir career. 
 Their station ciianginj;; with th' invertrd year. 
 Ilow all with carelul knowledge are enclu'd, 
 To choose their ])ropiM- bed, and wave, and food, 
 To guard tiioir spawn, and educate tlicir brood. 
 
 Of birds, how each according to lur kind 
 Proper materials for her nest can fiiul : 
 And build a frann\ wliicti (b'c]i('.-t Ihonuht in man 
 \\'oul(l, or amend, or imitate in vain. 
 Ilow in small lligbts they know to try their young. 
 And toaeh jiie callow cinUl liei- iiaceiii's song ; 
 \\'by tlie.se Triqucnt the [ilain, and tlio.'~e the wood, 
 \\'liy cN'iy land has iin- s|u'eif!c' bi-ood, 
 WluTc ib.e tali cr.ano, (ii- winding swallow goes, 
 fearful of i.'atirrin;i- \\in(ls. and lalling tiuowt;: 
 If into rocks or Imllow t rt'P> they creep. 
 
 I E.
 
 234 Swift. 
 
 In temporary death confin'd to sleep ; 
 Or, conscious of the coming evil, fly 
 To milder regions, and a southern sky. 
 
 Of beasts and creeping insects shall we trace 
 The wond'rous nature, and the various race ; 
 Or wild or tame, or friend to man or foe, 
 Of us what they, or what of them we know?" 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SWIFT, 
 
 Swift. Of true poetical feeling, Swift possessed not a grain, 
 He not only had it not, but except in his youth, when he wrote 
 Pindaric odes, he professedly despised it, avoided every appearance 
 of it, and sometimes directly attacked it by parodies &c. We must 
 think of the verses of Butler to judge by him ; not of such poets as 
 Dryden, much less Milton or Shakespeare. It is inconceivable 
 how large a proportion of Swift's poems are uninteresting. The 
 indelicacy of many is well known. It is a strange combination, of 
 great purity and correctness in one sense, and of studied violation 
 of them in the other. But, laying aside this fault, there are many 
 that are still more insipid. The matter not being important, the 
 style tires from its very correctness of uniformity ; the merit, except 
 in comparatively few specimens, is chiefly negative : and the same 
 might be said of the ideas. They have no absurdity nor affectation; 
 it is impossible to find fault. If they were the casual thoughts 
 and language of a more careless writer, some of them might attract; 
 and the whole be more worth dipping into, at least. Many are 
 occasional ; written on a self-prescribed subject ; not produced by 
 the spontaneous occurrence of ideas. Very. .many were written 
 originally merely for his friends. The Poem \V)itlcii hi a Ladys 
 Ivory Table-Book may be read, as a fair specimen of Swift's strong 
 and peculiar vein of humour,
 
 Sivift. 235 
 
 "Peruse my leaves through every part, 
 
 And think thou seest my owner's heart, 
 
 Scrawled o'er with trifles thus, and quite 
 
 As hard, as senseless, and as light ; 
 
 Exposed to every coxcomb's eyes, 
 
 But hid with caution from the wise. 
 
 Here you may read, 'Dear charming saint ; ' 
 
 Beneath 'A new receipt for paint : ' 
 
 Here, in beau-spelling, 'Tru del deth,' 
 
 There, in her own, " Foran el breth : ' 
 
 Here, ' Lov ly nymph, pronounce my doom I' 
 
 There, 'A sale way to use perfiune I' 
 
 Here, a page filled with billet-doux; 
 On t'other side, 'Laid out for siioes' 
 ' Madam I die without your grace. '- 
 ' Item, for half a yard of laco. ' 
 Who that had wit would place it here, 
 ('"or every peeping fop to jeer? 
 To think that your brains" issue is 
 Exposed to th' excrement of his, 
 In jiower of spittle and a clout, 
 Whene'er he please to blot it out ; 
 And then, to heigliten the disgrace, 
 Clap his own nonsense in the place. 
 W'lioc'er expects to hold his part 
 In sucli a l)ook, and such a heart. 
 If ho be wealthy, and a fool. 
 Is in all p'lints the fittest tool ; 
 Of whom it may be justly said, 
 lie's a gold pencil tipp'd with load." 
 
 Imagination, inventive fancy in the way of wit, and of circum- 
 stances to compare or heighten an entertaining idea, Swift possessed 
 in a great degree ; but the fancy which produces rich, pleasing, or 
 entertaining imagery, he hardly ever shows ; not in substance nor 
 in the ornaments of language: metaphors he almost wholly avoids. 
 In his rhymes, he is peculiarly fond of wjiat Pnitler led the way 
 in ; odd unexpected comljinations, chietly in double endings. In 
 one of his poems, the /.<'i,'/i:;/ir C/zi'/' is a \ery ingenious attempt to 
 give the names of the rarliament-men whom he satirises, without 
 printing them, by means of the rhymes to which they answer. The 
 Lillipitiian Ode to tiie Man-mountain is amusing : 
 
 ' In aina/e 
 Lost L ira/e ! 
 Can our eyes 
 Reach thy s'uc '.
 
 236 Swift. 
 
 May my lays 
 Swell with praise, 
 Wortljy tliee ! 
 Worthy me ! 
 Muse inspire 
 All thy in-it ! 
 Bards of old 
 Of him told, 
 Wheii they said, 
 Atlas' head 
 Propp'd the skies ; 
 See .' and believe your eyes ! 
 See him stride 
 
 Valleys wide, 
 Over woods. 
 Over floods ! 
 When he treads, 
 Mountains' heads 
 Groan and shake : 
 Armies quake : 
 Lest his spurn 
 Overturn 
 Man and steed : 
 Troops take heed ! 
 Left and right. 
 Speed your flight ! 
 Lest a host 
 Beneath his foot be lost I 
 Turn'd aside 
 From his hide, 
 Safe from wound 
 Darts rebound. 
 From his nose 
 Clouds he blow : 
 When he speaks. 
 Thunder breaks ! 
 When he eats 
 Famine threats ! 
 When he drinks 
 Neptune shrinks ! 
 Xigh thy ear. 
 In mid-ail', 
 On thy hand 
 Let me stand : 
 So shall L 
 Lofty poet ! touch the .-,ky." 
 
 His easy finished style was accpiired by considcrnble pains 
 
 prolDably, and7iot very early : but when accniircd he seems to have 
 
 taken delight in the exercise of the faculty, and to have written
 
 Swtft. 237 
 
 many things for the mere pleasure of writing. He was excessively 
 nice and scrupulous about language and metre. He is never clumsy, 
 or prosaic in the bad sense. His humour is not burlesque, like that 
 of Rabelais, nor does he use learned* words and ideas for the sake 
 of joke. 
 
 Swift was certainly a master in every style of English, but chose 
 for the ordinary vehicle of his thoughts, the simplest and commonest 
 language, and with all the compass of his invention, he preferred 
 the real to the imaginative. The requisites to real poetry feelings 
 of morals or of passion he had not, neither in wit does he approach 
 nearly to his model, Butler : indeed, he is in every way inferior to 
 him. In Swift's best works, his merit is the unrivalled power of 
 producing, and expressing in verse, just, characteristic, and amusing 
 circumstances of common life, and above all of conversation, 
 sometimes most unaffectedly conveying the sharpest satire. Per- 
 haps one of the best examples of the latter, is the poem " The 
 Grand Qitesiioii debatCiV,' whether Hamilton's Bawn should be 
 turned into a Barrack or lylalt-house. 
 
 "Tluis spoke to my lady the ki\if;]it full of care, 
 'Let me have your advice in a weit^hly affair. 
 This Ilamillon's bawn, while it slicks in my hand, 
 I lose by llie house wliat I get by the land ; 
 But how to dispose of it to the best l)idder. 
 For a barrack, or malt-house, we now must consider. 
 
 ' First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house, 
 Here I have coni]iuted the iirofit will fall t' us ; 
 There's nine liundrod pounds for labour and grain, 
 I increase it to twelve, so Ihree luimhxHl remain; 
 A handsome edition for wine anil good cheer, 
 Three dishes a-day, and t'-ixe liogsheads a-year ; 
 With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stor'd 
 No little scrub joint shall come on my board ; 
 And you and the Ucan n<i more shall condnne 
 To stint nie at niijht to one h'ltllo of wine ; 
 Nor shall 1. for this huniom-. permit you to purloin 
 A stoui; a;id a quarter cf l)ecf from my sirhjin. 
 If I make it a bai-rac!c, the crowa is my tenant ; 
 AT)- dfir, 1 have pondciM ai;ain and again on't: 
 In pnundairc and diawipacks I lose half my rent, 
 \\'hate\er tliey gi\e nic, 1 nui>l bi' content, 
 Or join Willi tl;e com I in every def)ate :
 
 238 Swift. 
 
 And rather than that, I would lose my estate." 
 
 Thus ended the Knight ; thus began his meek wife 
 'It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life. 
 Fm grown a mere viopus ; no company comes 
 But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums. 
 With parsons what lady can keep herself clean ? 
 I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean. 
 But if you will give us a Barrack, my dear. 
 The Captain, I'm sure, will always come here ; 
 I then shall not value his Deansbip a straw. 
 For the Captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe ; 
 Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert. 
 Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert ; 
 That men of his coat should be minding their pray'rs 
 And not among ladies to give themselves airs." 
 
 Thus argued my Lady, but argued in vain ; 
 The Knight his opinion resolv'd to maintain. 
 
 But Hannah, who listen'd to all that was pass'd, 
 And could not endure so vulgar a taste. 
 As soon as her Ladyship call'd to be dress 'd, 
 Cried, 'Madam, why surely my master's possess'd. 
 Sir Arthur the Malster ! how fme it will sound ! 
 I'd rather the bawn were sunk underground. 
 But, Madam, I guess'd there would never come good, 
 When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. 
 And now my dream's out ; for I was a-dream'd. 
 That I .^a;v a huge rat O dear, how I scream'd ! 
 And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes ; 
 And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill-news.' 
 
 'Dear madam, had not you but the spirit to tease. 
 You might have a barrack whenever you please: 
 And, madam, I always believ'd you so stout, 
 That for twenty denials you would not give out. 
 If I had a husband like him, \ purtest, 
 Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest : 
 And, rather than come in the same pair of sheets 
 With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets : 
 But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent, 
 And worry him out till he gives his consent. 
 Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think-, 
 An I were to be hang'd I cant sleep a wink : 
 For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, 
 I can't get it out, though I ne'er so fain. 
 I fancy already, a barrack contriv'd 
 At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arriv'd ; 
 Of this to be sure. Sir Arthur has warning. 
 And waits on the Captain betimes the next morning. 
 
 Now see, when they meet, how their honours behave 
 'Noble Captain, your servant' 'Sir Arthur, yourslave;' 
 You honour me much' 'The honour is mine.'
 
 Swift. 239 
 
 ' 'Twas a sad rainy night' 'But the morning is fine.' 
 ' Pray, how does my Lady ?' 'My wife's at your service' 
 'I think I have seen her picture by Jervas.' 
 'Good-morrow, good Captain.' ' I'll wait on you down. 
 ' You shan't stir a foot' ' You'll think me a clown.' 
 'For all the world, Captain, not half an inch farther.' 
 'You must be obey'd your servant, Sir Arthur! 
 'My humble respects to my lady unknown.' 
 'I hope you will use my house as your own.' 
 
 'Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate, 
 Thou hast certainly gotten a cap in thy pate.' 
 
 'Pray, m'ldam, be quiet: what was it I said? 
 You had liked to have put it quite out of my head. 
 Next day to be sure, the Captain will come 
 At the head of his troop with trumpet and drum. 
 Now, madam, observe how he marches in state : 
 The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate: 
 Dub, dub a dub, dub : the trumpeters follow. 
 Tantara, tantara ; while all the boys holla 
 See now comes the Captain all daub'd with gold lace: 
 O la I the sweet gentleman ! look in bis face ; 
 And see how he ritles like a lord of the land, 
 With the fine (laming sword that he holds in his hand; 
 And hi8 horse, the <Icar crcter, it prances and rears; 
 Willi ril)bons in knots at its tail and its ears : 
 At last comes the troop, by word of command, 
 Drawn up in our court, when the Captain cries, Stand I 
 Your Ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen, 
 For sure 1 had dizen'd you out like a queen. 
 The Captain, to show he is proud of the favour, 
 Looks Lip to your window, and cocks up his beaver ; 
 (His beaver is cock'd ; pray, madam, mark lliat ; 
 For a Captain of horse never takes otT his hat ; 
 lieciuise lie has never a hand that is idle, 
 For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle 
 Then tlourishes thrice his sword in the air, 
 As a complement due to a lady so fair ; 
 (How 1 tromblc to think of the blood it has spilt!) 
 Then he low'is do^Yn the point, and kisses the hilt. 
 Your I-adysliii) smiles, and tiius you begin: 
 
 'Fray, Captain, he pleased to alight and walk in.' 
 Tile Cai)tain salutes you with lOiv^v profound. 
 And your T-.adysiiip curts'ys lialf way to the ground. 
 'Kit, run to your master and bid him conic to us; 
 Till >uro he'll be proud of the limnmr you do us ; 
 Aivl. Caplaiii. you'll <l(i u-~ tin- favour to stay, 
 AmiI lake a shnri dinner here with us to day: 
 ^'ou'rc heaitily wele.'ine ; but ns for good cheer. 
 You c<inie in the very worst time of the year. 
 If I had exiiected so \vi.>rlhy a guest '
 
 240 Swift. 
 
 'Lord, marlam ! your Ladyship sure is in jest ; 
 
 You banter me, madara : the kingdom must grant' 
 
 ' You oflicers, Captain, are so complaisant.' 
 
 'Hist, hussey, I thinli I hear somebody coming.' 
 'No, madam : 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. 
 To shorten my tale, (for I hate a long story,) 
 The Captain at dinner appears in his glory ; 
 The Pean and the Doctor have humbled their pride, 
 For the Captain's entreated to sit by your side ; 
 And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first; 
 The parsons for envy are ready to burst. 
 The servants, amazed, are scarce ever able 
 To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table ; 
 And Molly and I have thrust in our nose, 
 To peep at the Captain in all his fine cldcs. 
 Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man, 
 Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran; 
 And 'Madam,' says he, 'if such dinners you give, 
 You'll ne'er want I'or parsons as long as you live. 
 I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose ; 
 But (he devil's as welcome wherever he goes : 
 
 me! they bid us reform and repent, 
 
 But, ! by their loolvS, they never keep Lent: 
 
 Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid 
 Yon cust a slieep's eye on her Ladyship's maid : 
 I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand. 
 In mending your cassock, and smoothir.g your band : 
 (For tlie Dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny. 
 That the Captain suppos'd he was curate to Jinny.) 
 ''Whenev'r you see a cassock and gown, 
 A hundred to one but it covers a clown. 
 Observe how a parson comes into a room ; 
 
 me, he hobbles as bad as my groom ; 
 
 A scholard, when just from liis college broke loose, 
 
 Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose ; 
 
 Your N'nicds, and Bhitttrks, and O/nurs. and stuff, 
 
 By , they don't signify tliis pinch of snuff. 
 
 To give a young gentleman right education, 
 The army's tlie only good school in tlie nation ; 
 My Schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool, 
 But at cuffs I was always tlie cock of the school : 
 I never could take to my book (bi- the bhjod o'mc. 
 And tlie puppy confess"d lie expected no good o'me. 
 He caught mo one morning coquetting liis wife. 
 But he maul'd me, I ne'er was so maul'd in my life. 
 So I took to the road, and, what's very odd. 
 
 The first man I robb'd was a parson, by 
 
 Now, madam, jou'll think it a strange thing to say. 
 But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day I 
 
 'Never since I was born did I hear so much wit. 
 And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split.
 
 Butler. 24i 
 
 So then you look'd scornful, and siiiff'd at the Dean, 
 As who should say, 'now, am I skinny and lean ?' 
 But he durst not so much as once open his lips, 
 And the Doctor was phvguily down in the hips, ' 
 
 Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, 
 Till she heard the Dean call, 'Will my Ladyship walk?' 
 Her Ladyship answers, 'I'm just coming down :' 
 Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, 
 Although it was plain in her heart she was glad. 
 Cried, Hussey, why surely the wench is gone mad ! 
 How could these chimeras get into your brains! 
 Come hither, and take this old gown for your pains. 
 But the Dean, if this secret should come to his ears, 
 Will never have done witii his gibes and his jeers : 
 For your life, not a word of the matter, I charge ye ; 
 Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 Butler. Pacta nascitur noiijit is a sentence of as.great truth 
 
 as antiquity ; it being most certain that all the acquired learning 
 
 imaginable is insufficient to complete a poet, without a natural 
 
 genius and propensity to so nol^le and sul:)lime an art. And this 
 
 phrase refers with remarkable truth to Biuler, as any reader of his 
 
 works will immediately allow. As I have before said, without this 
 
 innate faculty, the mo-t learned inen could not be true poets, and 
 
 many have often rendered themselves obnoxious to that satirical 
 
 inspiration, which this poet wittily invokes : 
 
 'Which made thnin. thoui:!] it were in spite 
 Of nature and their stars!, to write." 
 
 There are men who with very little human learning, have been 
 endued with a large sli.irc of ihilural wit and power, who have be- 
 come the most cclcbrateil poets of the age in which they lived as 
 the greatest example of such, \vc might mention Shakespeare. 
 But these are '^ RatiC ai'cs in ten is" so when the Muses have not 
 
 I F.
 
 242 Butter. 
 
 disdained the assistance of other arts and sciences, we are then 
 
 blessed with those lasting monuments of wit and learning, which 
 
 may justly claim a kind of eternity upon earth : and this author 
 
 may justly claim a place among these few rare genii. Butler's 
 
 celebrated poem of Htidibras, as a composition of natural unas- 
 
 sumed wit and humour, may rank first in the catalogue of such 
 
 works by our English poets. 
 
 Although Butler had not the opportunity of higher learning, or 
 
 the happiness of an academical education ; it may be perceived 
 
 throughout his whole poem, that he had read much, and was very 
 
 well accomplished in the most useful parts of human learning. A 
 
 great French writer speaking of the necessary qualities belonging 
 
 to a poet, tells us, '' he must have a genius extraordinary ; great 
 
 natural gifts ; a wit just, fruitful, piercing, solid and universal ; an 
 
 understanding clear and distinct ; an immagination neat and 
 
 pleasant ; an elevation of soul, that depends not only on art or 
 
 study, but is purely the gift of heaven ; which must be sustained 
 
 by a lively sense and vivacity; judgment to consider wisely of things 
 
 and vivacity for the beautiful expression of them. " This character 
 
 is justly due to Butler, of which any reader of his famous poem will 
 
 have seen. The reputation of this incomparable composition is so 
 
 thoroughly established in the world, that it would be superfluous, 
 
 if not impertinent, to endeavour any panegyric upon it. Therp is 
 
 a passage in the Introduction to one of the editions q{ Hudibras, 
 
 in which we are told "that King Charles II, whom the judicious 
 
 part of mankind will readily acknowledge to be a sovereign judge of 
 
 wit, was so great an admirer of it, that he would often pleasantly 
 
 quote it in his conversation." Butlers description of Sir Hudibras 
 
 in the opening of the poem not only overflows with humour and 
 
 shows a ready knowledge of general well-known circumstances, 
 
 but also exhibits considerable acquaintance with the less known 
 
 parts of classical literature. 
 
 "When civil dudgeon first grew high. 
 And men fell out thoj knew not why; 
 When hard words, jealousies and fears,
 
 Butler. 243 
 
 Set folks together by the ears, 
 
 And made mem fight, like mad or drunk, 
 
 For dame Religion as for punk 
 
 Whose honesty they all durst swear for, 
 
 Tho' not a man of them knew wherefore ; 
 
 When gospel-trumpeter surrounded 
 
 With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded, 
 
 And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic. 
 
 Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; 
 
 Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
 
 And out he rode a colonelling. 
 
 A wight he was whose very sight would 
 
 Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood; 
 
 That never bow'd his stubborn knee 
 
 To anything but chivalry ; 
 
 Nor put up blow, but that which laid 
 
 Right worshipful on shoulder-blade : 
 
 Chief of domestic knights and errant. 
 
 Either for chartel or for warrant ; 
 
 Great on the bench, great in tho saddle. 
 
 That could as well bind o'er as swaddle : 
 
 Mighty ho was at both of these. 
 
 And sty I'd of war as well as peace. 
 
 (So some rats, of amphibious nature, 
 
 Are either for tlio land or water.) 
 
 But here our author makes a doubt 
 
 Whether he were more wise or stout. 
 
 Some hold tiie one, and some the other ; 
 
 But howso'er they make a pother, 
 
 Tho diff'rcnce was so small, his brain 
 
 Oulwcigh'd his rage l)ut half a grain 
 
 Whicii made some take him for a tool 
 
 That knaves do work with, call'd a fool. 
 
 For't has been said by many, that 
 
 As Montaigne, playing witli liis cat. 
 
 Complains slie thought him but an ass, 
 
 Much more she would Sir Hudibras 
 
 (For that's the name our valiant Knight 
 
 To all his challenges did write,) 
 
 But they're mistaken very much ; 
 
 'Tis plain enough he was no such. 
 
 We grant, alt ho' he had much wit, 
 
 II' was very shy of using it ; 
 
 As lieing loth to wear it out, 
 
 And thorcfi)ro boro it not about; 
 
 Unless on holy-days, or so. 
 
 As meu their best apparel do. 
 
 Beside, 'tis known ho could speak Greek 
 
 As naturally as pigs do squeak: 
 
 That Latin was no more difficile.
 
 244 Bjitkr. 
 
 Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle 
 
 Being rich ui bolh, he never scanted 
 
 His bonnty niito such as wmited : 
 
 But nuich of either would afford 
 
 To many that had not one word, 
 
 For Hebrew roots, altho' they're found 
 
 To flourish most in barren ground, 
 
 He had such plenty as sufRc'd 
 
 To make some think him circumeis'd, 
 
 He was in Logic a great ei-itick, 
 Profoundly skill'd in analytick, 
 Or could distinguish and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
 On either which he could dispute, 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute. 
 He'd undertake to prove, by force 
 Of argiunent, a man's no horse, 
 He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 
 And that a lord may be an owl. 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
 And rooks committee-men and tru--tees. 
 He'd run in debt by disputation 
 And pay with ratiocination 
 All this by syllogism, true 
 In mood and figure, he would do. 
 For Rhetoric, he could not ope 
 His mouth, but out there flew a trope : 
 And when lie happen'd to break off 
 I' tb' middle of his speech, or cough, 
 H' had hard words ready to shew why. 
 And tell what rules he did it by : 
 Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
 You'd think he talk'd like other folk : 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 
 Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
 But, when he pleas"d to show't, his speech. 
 In lofdiH'ss of sound, was rich ; 
 A Babylonish dialeck, 
 Which learned pedants much affect. 
 It was a ])arty-coloLn''d dress 
 Of patch'd and pye-ball'd languages: 
 'Twas English cut on Greek or ],atin, 
 Like fustian heretofore on satin. 
 It had an odd promiscuous tone. 
 As if h' talk'd three j)arts in one; 
 Which made some think, when he did gabble, 
 Th' had heard three labourers of Babel 
 Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
 A leash of languages at once. 
 This he as voliiblv would vent
 
 Butler. 245 
 
 As if his stock would ne'er be spent ; 
 
 And truly to support that charge, 
 
 He had supplies as vast and large : 
 
 For he could coin or counterfeit 
 
 New words, with little or no wit ; 
 
 Words, so debas'd and hard, no stone 
 
 Was hard enough to touch them on : 
 
 And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, 
 
 The ignorant for current took 'em ; 
 
 That had the orator, who once 
 
 Did fill his uioutli with pebble stones* 
 
 When he harangu'd. but known his phrase, 
 
 He would have us'd no other ways, 
 
 In Mathematics he was greater 
 
 Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater f 
 
 For he, by geometric scale, 
 
 Could talie the size of pots of ale ; 
 
 Resolve, by signs and tangents, straight. 
 
 If bread or butter wanted weight ; 
 
 And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 
 
 The clock does strike by algebra. 
 
 Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, 
 
 And had read ev'ry text and gloss over : 
 
 Whate'er the crabbed'st author liath, 
 
 He understood b' implicit faith : 
 
 Whatever sceptic coukl inquire for, 
 
 For ev'ry why he had a wherefore ; 
 
 Knew more than forty of tliem do, 
 
 As far as words and terms could go : 
 
 All which he understood by rote, 
 
 And, as occasion serv'd, would quote: 
 
 No matter whether right or wrong. 
 
 They miglit be eitlier said or sung. 
 
 His notions fitted tilings so weU. 
 
 Tliat which was which he could not tell ; 
 
 But oftentimes mistook the one 
 
 For lb' other, as great clerks liave done. 
 
 He could reduce all things to acts, 
 
 And knew their natures by abstracts ; 
 
 Where entity and cjuiddita, 
 
 The ghosts of defunct bodies ily ; 
 
 Wlicre truth in person does appear, 
 
 Like Words congeal'd in noilhern air. 
 
 He knew what'> what, and tluit's as high 
 
 As metapbysic wit can Ily. 
 
 Demosthenes, who is said to h.ivc h.id a defect in liis piominciation, which he cured by 
 using to speak with httle stones in hi^ mouth. 
 
 t Tycho Brahe w.is an eminent Danisli M.itlienuilician.
 
 246 Butler. 
 
 In school-divinity as able 
 
 As he that hight Irrafragable ;* 
 
 A second Thomas, f or, at once 
 
 To name them all, another Dunce :J 
 
 Profound in all the nominal 
 
 And real ways beyond them all ; 
 
 For he a rope of sand could twist 
 
 As tough as learned Sorbonist ; 
 
 And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull 
 
 That's empty when the moon is full ; 
 
 Such as take lodgings in a head 
 
 That's to be let unfurnished. 
 
 He could raise scruples dark and nice, 
 
 And half solve 'em in a trice ; 
 
 As if Divinity had catch'd 
 
 The itch on purpose to be scratch'd ; 
 
 Or, like a mountebank, did wound, 
 
 And stab herself with doubts profound, 
 
 Only to show with how small pain 
 
 The sores of faith are cur'd again ; 
 
 Altho' by woful proof we find 
 
 They always leave a scar behind. 
 
 He knew the seat of Paradise, 
 
 Could tell in what degree it lies ; 
 
 And, as he was dispos'd, could prove it 
 
 Below the moon, or else above it : 
 
 What Adam dreamt of, when his bride 
 
 Came from her closet in his side : 
 
 Whether the Devil tempted her 
 
 By a High-Dutch interpreter: || 
 
 If either of them bad a navel ^ 
 
 Who first made music malleable : 
 
 Whether the serpent, at the fall. 
 
 * Some specific epithets, were added to the title of some famous doctors, as Angelicus, 
 Irrefragabilis, Subtilis &c, which is no doubt meant by this. 
 
 t Thomas Aquinas, a Dominican friar, was born in 1224, and studied at Cologne and Paris. 
 He new-modelled the school divinity, and was therefore called the Angelic D3Ctor, and 
 Eagle of Divines. The most illustrious persons of his time were ambitious of his friend- 
 ship, and put a high value on his merits so that they offered him bishoprics, which he 
 refused with as much ardour as others seek after them. 
 
 { Johannes Dunscotas was a very learned man, who lived about the end of the thirteenth 
 and beginning of the fourteenth century. He is said to have been extraordinary learned 
 in physics, metaphysics, mathematics and astronomy ; that his fame was so great when 
 at Oxford, that 30.000 scholars came thither to hear his lectures : that when at Paris his 
 arguments and authority carried it for the immaculate conception of the Blessed Virgin: 
 so that they appointed a festival on that account, and would admit no scliolars to degrees, 
 but such as were of this mind, 
 
 B Goropius Becanus endeavoured to prove that High-Dutch was the language that Adam 
 and Eve spoke in Paradise. 
 
 ^ Adam and Eve, being made, and not conceived and formed in he womb, had no navels, 
 fis some learned men have supposed, because they had no need of them.
 
 Butler. 247 
 
 Had cloven feet, or none at all, 
 
 All this, without a gloss or comment, 
 
 He could unriddle in a moment, 
 
 In proper terms, sucli as men smaller, 
 
 When Ihey throw out, and miss the matter. 
 
 For his religion, it was fit 
 
 To match his learning and his wit : 
 
 'Twas Presbyterian true blue ; 
 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 
 Of errant saints whom all men grant 
 
 To be the true cliurch militant ; 
 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 
 Decide all controversies by 
 
 Infallible artillery ; 
 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 
 By apostolic blows and knocks. 
 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation, 
 
 A godly thorough reformation, 
 
 Wlucli always must be carried on, 
 
 And still be doing, never done: 
 
 As if religion were intended 
 
 For nothing else but to be mended. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 His back, or rather burthen, shew'd 
 As if it stoop'd with its own load ; 
 For as yFneas l)ore his sire 
 Upon his shoulders thro' the fire. 
 Our knight did bear no less a pack 
 Of his own buttocks on his back ; 
 Which now liad almost got the upper 
 Hand of liis head, for want of crupper. 
 To poise tliis equally, he bore 
 A paunch of the same bulk before ; 
 Which still he had a special care 
 To keep well cramm'd with thrifty fare ; 
 As white-pot. butter-milk, and curds. 
 Such as a country-liouse afrt)rds ; 
 With other vittle. whicli anon 
 We farther shall dilate upon, 
 When of his hose we come to treat. 
 The cupboard where he kept Iiis meat.'' 
 
 The same sclf-altaincd knowlctli^e, witli deep insight to an- 
 cient fables and events, may be seen in the description of the 
 Squire, which abounds as does the whole of the poem with the 
 keenest touches of wit and satire. 
 
 "A squire he had, wliosc name was Ralph, 
 That in th' adventure went his half:
 
 248 Butler. 
 
 Tho' writers for more stately tune. 
 
 Do call him Ralpho ; 'tis all one , 
 
 And when we can with metre safe, 
 
 Well call him so; if not, plain Ralph 
 
 (For rhyme the rudder is of verses 
 
 With which like ships they steer tlieir courses. 
 
 An equal stock of wit and valour 
 
 He had laid in ; bj bii-th a tailor. 
 
 The mighty Tyrian queen, that gain'd 
 
 With subtle shreds a tract of land, 
 
 Did leave it with a castle fair 
 
 To his great ancestor, her heir. 
 
 From him descended cross-legg'd knights, 
 
 Fam'd for their faith, and warli!<.e fights 
 
 Against the bloody cannibal, 
 
 Whom they destroy'd both great and small. 
 
 This sturdy Squire, he had, as well 
 
 As the bold Trojan knight, seen Hell ; 
 
 Not with a counterfeited pass 
 
 Of golden bough, but true gold-lace. 
 
 His knowledge was not far behind 
 
 The Knight's, but of another kind. 
 
 And he another way came by't : 
 
 Some call it Gifts, and some New-Light ; 
 
 A liberal art, that costs no pains 
 
 Of study, industry, or lirains. 
 
 His wit was sent him for a token. 
 
 But in the carriage crack'd and l:)roken. 
 
 Like commendation nine-pence crook'd, 
 
 With To and from my love It look'd. 
 
 He ne'er considered it as loth 
 
 To look a gift-liorse in the mouth ; 
 
 And very wisely would lay forth 
 
 No more upon it than 'twas worth. 
 
 But as he got it iVeely, so 
 
 He spent it frank and freely too. 
 
 For saints themselves will somelimes be. 
 
 Of gifts that cost them nothing, free. 
 
 By means of this, with hem and cough, 
 
 Prolongers lo enlighten'd sluff, 
 
 He could deep mysteries imriddle 
 
 As easily as thread a needle. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Thus Ralpli became infallible 
 As three or four-lcgg'd oracle, 
 The ancient cup, or modern chair ; 
 Spoke thf truth point-blank. Iho' unaware. 
 ?"or mystic learning, wondrous able 
 In magic Talisman and Cabal,
 
 Butler. 249 
 
 Whose primitive tradition reaches 
 
 As far as Adam's first green breeches ; 
 
 ])eep sighted in intelligences, 
 
 Ideas, atoms, influences ; 
 
 And much of terra incognita, 
 
 Th' intelligible world could say : 
 
 A deep occult Philosopher, 
 
 As learned as the wild Irish are, 
 
 Or Sir Agrippa; for profound. 
 
 And solid lying much renown'd. 
 
 He Anthroposophus * and Floud, 
 
 And Jacob Behmen f understood : 
 
 Knew many an amulet and charm, 
 
 That would do neither good nor harm : 
 
 In Rosy-crucian lore as earned. 
 
 As he that Vere adeptus learned, 
 
 lie understood the speech of birds 
 
 As wt'll as they themselves do words ; 
 
 Could tell what sulitlest parrots mean, 
 
 Thiit speak and think contrai-y clean : 
 
 What member 'tis of whom ihoy tiilk, 
 
 Wh^n they cry Rope, and Walk, knave, walk. 
 
 He'd extract nunibcrs out of matter. 
 
 And keep them in a glass, like water ; 
 
 Of sov'reigii power to make men wise; 
 
 For dropp'd in blear thick-sighted <>ye9, 
 
 'J'hey'il make them see in darkest night, 
 
 Like owls, tho' purblind in the light." 
 
 The Hjidibras appears to have been written in portions, and 
 
 under somewhat peculiar circumstances ; nor was it ever fiiiished. 
 
 The first three cantos were piiblislied in 1GC3, and introduced to the 
 
 attention of the Court by the Karl of Dorset. In the following year, 
 
 the second part made its a])pcarance ; and we learn that such 
 
 was the general popularity of this poem and the particular favour 
 
 with which it was received Ijy the king and courtiers, that everyone 
 
 expected some special reward would be bestowed on the ingenious 
 
 autlior : but, except three Iiundrcd guineas which the king is said 
 
 to have sent to him (though tliere is no authority whatc\'cr for this) 
 
 no trace is found of any reward or promotion whatever. Dis- 
 
 * Tliis is only \\ roiiipouii J ( Jroik worti, which sl_;nirics :i iiinn that is wise in the knowledge 
 of men. U was used iu liutler's time by sonic anonymous author, to conceal his real 
 name, 
 
 t Two Authors of Butler's time. 
 
 I G.
 
 250 Butler. 
 
 couraging as this treatment was, he published the third part in 
 1678 which still leaves the story imperfect. 
 
 Butler is said to have made no figure in conversation, propor- 
 tionate to the wit displayed in his immortal poem, and King Charles 
 who had a curiosity to see him, could never be brought to believe 
 that he wrote Hudibras. He has usually been ranked amongst the 
 unfortunate poets who have been neglected by their age; yet although 
 no proof is to be found of royal munificence having been extended 
 to him, there is no reason to think that he was poor in the most 
 unfavourable sense. 
 
 Although the persons and events introduced in Hudibras, are now 
 forgotten, or known only to historic students ; the exquisite humour 
 of this piece is still as keenly relished as when first presented to 
 the public, and much of it has long been introduced into conver- 
 sation as axioms of wit and sense. A writer has said, "that 
 concerning Hudibras, there is but one sentiment ; it is universally 
 allowed to be the first and last poem of its kind ; the learning, wit, 
 and humour, certainly stand unrivalled. " 
 
 The humourous manner in which love is variously described, 
 
 deserves quoting as examples of this excellent work. 
 
 "Such thoughts as these the Knight did keep, 
 More than his bangs or fleas, from sleep. 
 And as an owl, that in a barn 
 Sees a mouse ereepin;; in the corn, 
 Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes, 
 As if he slept, until he spies 
 The little beast within Ins reach, 
 Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ; 
 So from bis couch the Knight did start 
 To seize upon the widow's heart; 
 Crying with hasty tone, aud hoarse, 
 Ra'pho, despatch; to horse, to horse. " 
 
 * * * * )( 
 
 ' Love is a burglarer, a felon 
 That at tbe windore eje does steal in, 
 To rob the heart, and with his prey 
 Steals out again a closer way. 
 Which whoever can discover, 
 He's sure (as he deserves) to suffer. 
 Love is a fire, that burns and sparkles 
 In racTi as nat' rally as in charcoals,
 
 Sutler. 251 
 
 Which sooty chymists stop in holes, 
 When out of wood they extract coiils : 
 So lovers should their passions choke, 
 That, tho' they burn, they may not smoke. 
 'Tis like that sturdy thief that stole 
 And dragg'd beasts backward into's hole: 
 So Love does lovers, and us men 
 Draws by the tails into his den. 
 That no impression may discover, 
 And trace t'his cave the wary lover. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 For as the Pythagorean soul 
 Runs through all beast, and fish, and fowl. 
 And has a smack of ev'ry one, 
 So love does, and has ever done ; 
 And therefore though 'tis ne'er so fond, 
 Takes strangely to the vagabond. 
 'Tis but an ague that's reverst. 
 Whose hot fit takes the patient first 
 That after burns with cold as much 
 As ir'n in Greenland does the touch ; 
 Melts in the furnace of desire 
 Like glass, that's but the ice of fire ; 
 And when his heat of fancy's over. 
 Becomes as hard and frail a lover : 
 For when he's with love-powder laden. 
 And prim'd aTid cock'd by Miss or Madam, 
 The smallest pparkle of an eye 
 Gives fires to his artillery ; 
 And oif the loud oaths go ; but, while 
 They're in the very act, recoil. 
 Hence 'tis so few dare take their chance 
 Without a Sep' rate maintenance; 
 And widow's, who have try d one lover, 
 Trust none again, till th' have made over ; 
 Or if they do, bofore they marry, 
 Tho foxes weigh the geese tliey carry ; 
 And, e'er they venture o'er a stream. 
 Know how to size tliemselves and them; 
 Whence wittiest ladies always clioose 
 To undertake the heaviest goose : 
 For now the world is grown so wary. 
 'J'hat few of cither sex dare marry, 
 But rather trust on tick t'amours, 
 Tlie cross and jiile for hotter or worse ; 
 A mode that is lield honoui-al)le, 
 As well as Frencli, and fashionahle ; 
 For when it falls out for the best, 
 Where both are incommoded least
 
 252 Butler. 
 
 In soul and body two unite 
 To make up one hermaphrodite, 
 Still amorous, and fond, and billing, 
 Like Philip and Mary on a shilling. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 For love should, like a deodand, 
 Still fall to th' owner of th' land, 
 And where there's substance for its ground, 
 Cannot but be more firm and sound 
 Than that which has the slightest basis 
 Of airy virtue, wit, and graces; 
 Which is of such thin subtlety, 
 It steals and creeps in at the eye. 
 And, as it can't endui-e its stay, 
 Steals out again as nice a way, 
 
 But love, that its extraction owns 
 From solid gold and preciou.s stones, 
 Must, like its shining parents, prove 
 As solid, and as glorious love. 
 Hence 'tis you have no way t' express 
 Our charms and graces but by these: 
 For what are lips, and eyes, and teeth. 
 Which beauty invades and conquers with. 
 But rubies, peai'ls, and diamonds, 
 Wilh which a philter love commands ? 
 Tliis is the way all jinrents prove. 
 In mannging tlieir children's love, 
 Thiit force 'em t' intermarry and wed, 
 As if th' were burying of the dead ; 
 Cast earth to eiirth, as in the grave, 
 To join in wedlock all tliey iiave. 
 And, when the settlement's in force. 
 Take all the rest for betler or worse: 
 For money has a power above 
 The stai's and fate to niansige love, 
 Whose arrows, learned poets hold. 
 That never miss, are tipp'd wiih gold." 
 
 His humourous description of Evening, and the passage upon 
 Hypocrisy are most interesting. 
 
 "The sun grow low, ;ind Irft tlie skies, 
 Put down '^siiino write) by lailit->' t'_\ es. 
 'J'he moon puU'd off her veil of ligiit, 
 That hides her face by dny ti'om sight 
 (Myi^terious veil, of brighiiuss made, 
 That's both hei- lustre inid her shade). 
 And in the laiitei-n of the night 
 With shining horns hung out l;cr light; 
 For darkness is the proper sphere.
 
 Young. 2^3 
 
 Whei*e all false glories use t' appear, 
 The twinkling stars began to muster, 
 And glitter with their borrow' tl lustre, 
 While sleep tlie wojiry'd world reliev'd, 
 By counterfeiting death reviv'd. 
 His whipping penimce till the morn. 
 Our vot ry thought it best t' adjourn, 
 And not to carry on a work 
 Of such importance in the dark. 
 With erring haste, but rather stay 
 And do't in th' open face of day ; 
 And in the meantime go in quest 
 Of next retreat to take his rest, " 
 
 "Why didst thou choose that cursed sin, 
 Hypocrisy, to set up in ? 
 
 Jiecause it is the thriving'st calling, 
 The only saints'-bell that rings all in ; 
 In which all churches are concern'd. 
 And is the easiest to be learn'd : 
 For no degrees, u!\less they employ't, 
 Can ever gain much, or eujoy't : 
 A gift that is not only able 
 To domineer among the rabble. 
 But by the laws empowerd to rout. 
 And awe the greatest that stand out ; 
 Which few hold forth against, for fear 
 Their hands should slip, and come too near : 
 For no sin else among the saints 
 la taught so tenderly against." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI I I. 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 Young. Young's poetry partakes more of the style of Elizabeth 
 and James. It excites more wonder than admiration, and is felt 
 by everyone to be at once ingcnioLis, incoiigiuous, and unnatural. 
 We meet throughout with passages and sentiments ofa most exal- 
 ted character, which exhibited liie character of a true Ciiristian 
 Divine. We read that his conversation was of the same nature 
 as his woiks, and showed a solemn cast of ihouglit to be natural 
 to him; death, futurity, judgment, eternity, were his common topics.
 
 264 Young. 
 
 In his excellent poem the Last Day, one of his earliest works, 
 
 he calls his Muse " The Melancholy Maid" 
 
 "Whom dismal scenes delight, 
 Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of night. " 
 
 In some of his works however, he indulges in occasional sallies 
 of wit, of which his well-known epigram on Vollaire is a specimen: 
 " Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin, 
 Thou seem'st a Milton with bis Death and Sin." 
 
 But perhaps there was more of indignation than pleasantry in 
 his wit, as his Satire was always pointed against indecency and 
 religion. His Satire the Love of Fame is a great performance. 
 The shaftsof his witare directed against the folly of being devoted 
 to the fashion, and aiming to appear what we are not. It is written 
 with smoothness of style, pointed sentences, solid sentiments, and 
 the sharpness of resistless truth. His finest poem, the Night 
 Thoughts, which is almost universally known, abounds in the most 
 exalted flights and the utmost stretch of thought. This is the great 
 excellency of Young's poetry. In this marvellous poem he has ex- 
 hibited a very wide display of original poetry, variegated with deep 
 reflexions, and stricking allusions, a wilderness of thought, in which 
 the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and of every 
 odour. What deep philosophy is contained in Young's work, and 
 with what eloquence he has conveyed those profound speculations! 
 They are written in such language as to be almost received by the 
 meanest capacities. From them we are brought home to a keener 
 knowledge of what we ourselves are ; from whence we came, and 
 whether we must go. Like a good philosopher also, he has invin- 
 cibly proved the immortality of man from the grandeur of his 
 conceptions and the meanness and misery of his state; and thus his 
 work forms a complete view of the power, situation, and end of 
 man. He has taught us to meditate upon ourselves: self-reflection 
 being the only way to valuable and true knowledge: and in doing 
 this, has used an eloquence and force of language peculiar to him- 
 self. This poem is said to have been occasioned by a family 
 distress the loss of his wife and two children, who died within a
 
 Young. 255 
 
 short time of each other. The two latter are shown to us in the 
 characters of Philander and Narcissa. The circumstance of his 
 being obliged to bury Narcissa in a field by night, not being allow- 
 ed interment in a churchyard, being a protestant, is beautifully and 
 indelibly recorded in Night III. of this divine poem : 
 " O Philander ! 
 
 What was thy fato ? A double fate to me ; 
 
 Portent, and pain ! a menace and a blow ! 
 
 Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace, 
 
 Not less a bud of omfn than of prey. 
 
 It cnll'd Narcissa long before her hour ; 
 
 It call"d her tender soul, by break of bliss, 
 
 From the first blossom, from tlie birds of joy ; 
 
 Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves 
 
 In this inclement clime of human life. 
 Sweet harmonist ! and beautiful as sweet ! 
 
 And young as beautiful ! and soft as young ! 
 
 And gay as soft ! and mnocent as gay ! 
 
 And happy (if aught happy here) as good! 
 
 For fortune fond had built lier nest on high. 
 
 Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume, 
 
 Transfix'd by fate (who loves a lofty mark). 
 
 How from the summit of the grove she fell, 
 
 And left it unharmonious ! All its charms 
 
 Extinguish'd in tiio wonders of her song ! 
 
 Her song still vibratos in my ravish'd ear. 
 
 Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain 
 
 (0 to forL'et her I) tlirilling thro' my heart ! 
 
 Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy ! this group 
 
 Of bright ideas, flow'rs of jiaradise, 
 
 As yet UMforfi'it ! in one lilazo we bind. 
 
 Kneel, and ])resent it to the skies ; us all 
 
 We gufsls of heav'n : and tJiesc were all her own ; 
 
 And r<he was mine ; and I was was ! most blest 
 
 Gay title of the deepest misery I 
 
 ***** 
 Turn, hopr-less thought ! turn from her : thought repoU'd, 
 
 Resenting rallies, and wakes i-^y'v; who. 
 
 Snalfhd ere thy prime I -ind in thy bridal hour. 
 
 And wlien kind fortune, wilii thy lover, sinil'd! 
 
 And wln'U hiu'li-davoui'd tliy IVesli-op'ning joys ! 
 
 And when blind man ])r()niiunc'cl tliy bliss complete, 
 
 And on a foreign shoi-e ; wleu-o strangers wept I 
 
 Strangers to tliee ; und, more surpri^ing still, 
 
 Strangers to kindness, wept. Tiieir eyes let fall 
 
 Inhuman tears: strange tears ! that trickled down, 
 
 From marble hearts ! obdurate tenderness!
 
 256 Young. 
 
 A tenderness that eall'd them more severe, 
 
 In spite of nature's soft persuasion, steel'd; 
 While nature melted, superstition rav'd ; 
 That inourn"d the dead ; and this denv'd a grave. 
 Their sighs iticeiis'd ; sighs foreign to the will ; 
 Their will thetigei-s suck'd. outrag'd the storm. 
 For, Oh I the Ciirst uiit^odllness of zeal ! 
 While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurst. 
 In blind infallibility's embrace; 
 The faiTited spirit petrify'd the breast; 
 Deny'd the charity of dust, to spread, 
 O'er dust! a charity their dogs enjoy. 
 What coidd I do? What succour? What resource? 
 With pious sacrilege, a grave I stole ; 
 With impious piety, that grave I wrong'd ; 
 Short in my duty ; coward in my grief! 
 More like her murderer, than fiiend. I crept 
 \A"ith S'ifr susjjended step, and muffled dei p. 
 In midniglit darkness, wlii.s])ei-'d inv List sigli. 
 I whisp^r'd what should echo thro' their i-ealms ; 
 Nor writ her name, whose tomli shon'd pierce the skies. 
 J'resuniptuous tear, how dur.-^t I dread her foes, 
 While nature's loudest dictates I obey"d : 
 Pai-don neces,sity, blest shade ! of grief 
 And indignation rival bursts I pour'd ; 
 Half execration minified wiih my pray'r; 
 Kindled at man, wliile I his God ador'd, 
 S'ire gi-udg'd the savage land her sacred dust, 
 Ftam]id the curst soil : and with humanity 
 (Deny'd N'arcissa) wi.sh'd them all a grave." 
 
 There is scarcely a passage in this work, however sombre or 
 gloomy, that does not paint, with the most lively fancy, the true 
 feelings of the heart, the vanity of human things, with its fleeting 
 honours and enjoyments, and certainly the strongest arguments 
 in support of the immortality of the soul. The former are beau- 
 tifully illustrated in the following passages 
 
 VANITY. 
 
 " O the dark days of vanity ! while here 
 How tasteless ! and how terrible, when gone ! 
 Gone ! they ne'er go, when past, they haunt us still, 
 The spirit wakes of ev'ry day decf^as'd; 
 And smiles and angel, or a fury fniwii. 
 Nor death, nor lile delight us. If time past ; 
 And time possest, both pain iis, what can please? 
 That which the Deity to please ordain'd, 
 Time us'd. The man who consecrates his hours
 
 Young. 267 
 
 By vig'rous effort, and an honest aim, 
 At once he draws the sting of life and death, 
 He walks with nature ; and her paths are peace. 
 * * * * * 
 
 Ye well-array'd ! Ye lilies of our land ! 
 Ye lilies male ! who neither toil, nor spin, 
 (As sister lilies might) if not so wise 
 As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight I 
 Ye delicate ! whom nothing can support, 
 Yourselves most insupportable ! for whom 
 I'he winter rose must blow, the sun put on 
 A brighter beam in Leo ; silky-soft 
 Favonius breathe still softer, or her chid ; 
 And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song, 
 And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign looms ! 
 O ye LORKNZOS of our age I who deem 
 One moment unamus'd, a misery 
 Not made for feeble man ! who call aloud 
 For ev'ry bawble, drivell'd o'er by sense ; 
 For rattles, and conceits of ev'ry cast, 
 For change of follies, and relays of joy, 
 To drag your patient, through the tedious length 
 Of a short winter's day ; say, sages I say. 
 Wits oracles ! say, dreamers of gay dreams ! 
 How will you weather an eternal night, 
 V\ here such expedients I'ail?" 
 
 I'AME. 
 
 " Fame is the shade of immortality, 
 And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, 
 Contemncl, it shrinks to nolliing in the grasp. 
 Consult ih' ambitious, 'tis ambiti(jn"s cure, 
 'And is this all ?' cry'd C/ICSAR at his* height 
 Disgusted. This third proof ambition brings 
 Of immortality. The lirst in fame, 
 Observe him near, your envy will abate : 
 Sham'd at the disproportion vast, between 
 The jiassion, and the jHU'chase. he will sigh 
 At such success, and blush at bis reiunvn. 
 And why':* because far richer prize invites. 
 His heart ; far more illustrious glory calls ; 
 It calls in whispers, yet the ilcafcst hear:" 
 
 AMlil I ION. 
 
 " .Man inu^l soar; 
 
 An obstinate activity within, 
 An insupprc>si\ spritiL,'. v^ill to>s him \i|i. 
 In spiio of fortiuio's load. .\(.t kings ahuic, 
 Fach villager has his ambition too ; 
 
 I il.
 
 258 Young. 
 
 No sultan prouder than his fetter'd slave : 
 Slaves build their little Babylons of straw, 
 Echo the proud Assyrian in their hearts, 
 And cry 'Behold the wonders of my might'! 
 And why ? Because immortal as their Lord ; 
 And souls immortal must for ever heave 
 At something great, the glitter or the gold ; 
 The praise of mortals, or the praise of Heav'n. " 
 
 LOVE OF PRAISE, 
 
 "As love of pleasure is ordain'd to guard 
 
 And feed our bodies, and extend our race ; 
 
 The love of praise is planted to protect 
 
 And propogate the glories of the mind. 
 
 What is it, but the love of praise, inspires, 
 
 Matures, refines, embellishes, exalts, 
 
 Earth's happiness? From that, the delicate. 
 
 The grand, the marvellous, of civil life. 
 
 Want and convenience, under-workers, lay, 
 
 The basis, on which love of glory builds. 
 
 Nor is thy life, O virtue ! less in debt 
 
 To praise, thy secret stimulating friend : 
 
 Were men not proud, what merit should we miss 1 
 
 Pride made the virtues of the Pagan world. 
 
 Praise is tlie salt that seasons riglit to man, 
 
 Aiid v.iiets his appetite for moral good. 
 
 Thirst of applause is virtue's second guard ; 
 
 Reason her first Ijut reason wants an aid ; 
 
 Our private reason is a flatterer ; 
 
 Thirst of applause calls public judgment in, 
 
 To poise our own, to keep an even scale, 
 
 And give endanger'd virtue fairer play." 
 
 AVARICE. 
 
 " To store up treasure, with incessant toil. 
 
 This is a man's province, this his highest praise. 
 
 To this great end keen instinct stings him on. 
 
 To guide that instinct, reason ! is thy charge ; 
 
 'Tis thine to tell us where true treasure lies : 
 
 But reason failing to dischaige her trust, 
 
 Or to tlie deaf discharging it in vain, 
 
 A blunder follows: and blind industry, 
 
 Gall'd by the spur, but stranger to the course 
 
 (The course where stakes of more than gold are won) 
 
 The jaded spirits of the present hour, 
 
 O'erloading, with the cares of distant age. 
 
 Provides for an eternity below. 
 
 " Thou shall not covet, " is a wise command : 
 But bounded to the wealth the sun surveys, 
 Look farther, the command stands quite revers'd
 
 Young. 259 
 
 And av'rice is a virtue most divine. 
 
 Is faith a refuge for our liappiness? 
 
 Most sure : and is it not for reason too ? 
 
 Nothing this world unriddles, but the next. 
 
 Whence inextinguishable thirst of gain? 
 
 From inextinguishable life in man. 
 
 Man, if not meant, !)y worth, to reach the skies, 
 
 Had wanted wing to flj so far in guilt. 
 
 Sour grapes, I grant, ambition, avarice : 
 
 Yet still their root is immortality. 
 
 These its wild growths so bitter and so base, 
 
 (Pain and reproach.') religion can reclaim, 
 
 Refine, exalt, throw-down their pois'nous lee, 
 
 And make them sparkle in the bowl of bliss. '" 
 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 "Since nature made us not more fond than proud 
 Of happiness (whence hypocrites in joy ! 
 Makers of mirth ! artificers of smiles !) 
 Why should the joy most poignant sense affords. 
 Burn us with blushes, and rebuke our pride? 
 Those heav'n-born blushes tells us man descends, 
 Ev'n in the zenith of his earthly bliss: 
 Should reason take her infidel repose, 
 This honest instinct speaks our lineage high; 
 This instinct calls on darkness to conceal 
 Our rapturous relation to the stalls. 
 Our glory covers us with noble shame, 
 And he that's unconfounded is unmnnii'd. 
 The man that blushes is not quite a brute. 
 Thus far with thee, Lorenzo ! will I close : 
 Pleasure is good, and man for pleasure made ; 
 But pleasure full of glory as of joy ; 
 Pleasure, which neither blushes nor expires." 
 
 Although Young possessed an exuberance of fancy, his genius 
 was not always under the control of taste and judgment. Still 
 his works are full of passages that would do honour to any 
 poet. Such are some of the remarkable passages of this great poet's 
 works, exhibiting so minutely, and exemplifying so divinely the 
 mythical honours and follies of this life. There is something at 
 once majestic and awful in the huv^uage Young employs, exciting 
 in the mind feelings, which the common language of poetry could 
 never create. Many of this poet's fine thoughts ho^vcver, are over- 
 cast with a gloom of melancholy, so as to have an effect rather to 
 be dreaded by minds of a morbid hue : such in character, though
 
 260 Young. 
 
 beautiful in point of language and conception, are the three fol- 
 lowing passages: 
 
 " Time destroy'd 
 
 Is suicide, where more than hlood is spilt. 
 
 Time flies, death urges, knells call, heav'n invites, 
 
 Hell threatens : all exerts ; in effort, all ; 
 
 More than creation labours I labours more ? 
 
 And is there in creation, what, amidst 
 
 This tumult universal, wing'd dispatch, 
 
 And ardent energy, supinely yawns ? 
 
 Man sleeps ; and man alone ; and man, whose fate, 
 
 Fate irreversible, entire, extreme. 
 
 Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulph 
 
 A moment trembles; drops! and man, for wh.om 
 
 All else is in alarm! man, the sole cause 
 
 Of this surrounding storm ! and yet he sleeps, 
 
 As the storm rock'd to rest: -Throw years away? 
 
 Throw empires, and be blameless. Ivloments seize ; 
 
 Heavens on their wing. A moment we may wish ; 
 
 When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand still 
 
 IJid him drive back his car, and reimport. 
 
 The period past, regive the given hour. 
 
 ***** 
 Is death at distance? No: he has been on thee ; 
 
 And given sure earnest of his final blow. 
 
 Those hours that lately smil'd, where are they now ? 
 
 Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown'd, all drown'd 
 
 In that great deep, which nothing disembogues ! 
 
 And, dying, they bequeathed thee small renown. 
 
 The rest are on the wing : how fleet their flight I 
 
 Already has the fatal train took fire ; 
 
 A moment, and the world's blown up to thee ; 
 
 The sun is darkness and the stars are dust. 
 
 ***** 
 The Bell strikes One. We take no note of time 
 
 But from its loss. To give it then a tongue 
 
 Is wife in man. As if an angel spoke, 
 
 I feel the solemn sound : If heard aright, 
 
 It is the knell of my departed hours : 
 
 Where are I hey? VVitli the years beyond the flood, 
 
 It is the siiiual that demands dispatch : 
 
 How much is to be done? My hoi)es and fears 
 
 Start up alarni'd, and o'er life's narrow verge 
 
 Look down On wliat? a fathomless abyss ; 
 
 A dread eternity I how surely mine ! 
 
 And can eternity belong to nie. 
 
 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? 
 Plow poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
 
 Bow complicate, how wonderful, is man !
 
 Young. 261 
 
 How passing wonder hk, who made him such ! 
 Who centei'd in our mike such strange extremes I 
 From difTrent nature's marvellously mix'd, 
 Connexion exquisite of distant worlds I 
 Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain ! 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
 A beam ethereal, fuUy'd, absorpt I 
 Tho' suUy'd, and dishonour'd, still divine! 
 Dim miniature of greatness alisolute. 
 h\\ heir of glory! a frail child of dust ! 
 Helpless inmiortal ! insect infinite ! 
 A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, 
 And in myself am lost ! at liome a stranger, 
 Thought wanders up and down, surpriz'd, aghast, 
 And wond'ring at her own : How reason reels ! 
 O what a miracle to man is man, 
 Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy, what dread ! 
 Alternately transported, and alarm'd ! 
 What can preserve my life ! or A'hat destroy ? 
 An angel's iirni can't snatch me from the grave ; 
 Legions of angi^ls oan't confine me tliore. 
 
 "Tis past conjecture : all things rise in proof: 
 While o'or my limbs sleep's sol't doniitiion spread, 
 What tho' inv soul phantastic measures trod 
 O'er fairy fields; or nu)urn'd along the gloom, 
 Of pathless woods ; or down the cr.iggy steep 
 Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain tiie mantle pool, 
 Or scal'd the cliff ; or dane'd on hollow winds, 
 Willi antic shapes, wild natives of the brain ? 
 Her ceaseless flight, tiio' devious, speaks her nature 
 Of subtler essence than the trodden clod. 
 Active, aerial, tow'ring, unoonfiu'd. 
 Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. 
 Ev'n silent night proclaims my soid innnortal : 
 Ev'n silent nigiit proclaims eternal day. 
 For human weal, heav'n liusbands all events ; 
 Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vains dream in vain," 
 
 Much as I have already quoted from this work, I cannot refrain 
 
 from giving one more passage, wiiich lias always appeared to me 
 
 to be one of the choicest of the many magniticcnt strains in this 
 
 poem. 
 
 "Religion ! tiiou th-> sou! of h-\p]-)iness ; 
 
 K\\ \, groaning Calv.iry, oflhni'I there shine 
 
 1'lie nol)l''St I ruth ; there si rongest motives sting ; 
 
 There sacred violenC'' assiulls the soul ; 
 
 There nothing hut compulsion is forhorn. 
 
 Can love allure us.' or can terror awe ? 
 
 He weeps ! tho falling drop puts out the sun :
 
 262 Voune^, 
 
 He sighs the sigh earth's deep foundation shakes, 
 
 If in his love so terriblR, what then 
 
 His wrath infiam'd ? his tenderness on fire ? 
 
 Like soft, smooth oil, outblazing other fires? 
 
 Can pray'r, can praise avert it? Thou my all 1 
 
 My theme ! my inspiration ! and my crown I 
 
 My strength in age ! my rise in low estate I 
 
 My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth ! my world I 
 
 My light in darkness ! and my life in death I 
 
 My boast thro' time ! bliss through eternity ! 
 
 Eternity, too short to speak thy praise I 
 
 Or fathom thy profound of love to man ! 
 
 To man of men the meanest, ev'n to me ! 
 
 My sacrifice! my God I what things are these I 
 
 What then art Thou ? by what name shall I call thee? 
 Knew I the name devout archangels use, 
 Devout archangels should the name enjoy, 
 By me unrivall'd ; thousands more sublime, 
 None half so dear, as that, which, tho' unspoke, 
 Still glows at heart : O how omnipotence 
 Is lost in love ! thou great philanthropist ! 
 Father af angels ! but the friend of man. 
 Like Jacob, fondest of the younger born ! 
 Thou, who didst save him, snatch the smoking brand 
 From out the flames, and quench it in thy blood 1 
 How art thou pleas'd, by bounty to distress! 
 To make us groan beneath our gratitude. 
 Too big for birth! to favour and confound; 
 To challenge, and to distance, all return ! 
 Of lavish love, stupendous heights to soar, 
 And leave praise panting in the distant vale ! 
 Thy right too great defrauds thee of thy due : 
 And sacrilegious our sublimest song. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Oh for warmer still ! 
 
 Guilt chills my zeal, and age benumbs my pow'ra ; 
 Oh for an humbler heart, and ])rouder song ! 
 TnoTT, my mueh-injur'd theme ! witii that soft, eye, 
 Which melted o'er doom'd Salem, deij;n to look 
 Compassion to the coldness of my breast ; 
 And pardon to the winter in my strain. 
 
 Oh ye cold-hearted, tVozen. formnlists I 
 On sucii a theme, 'tis im]iious to be cnlm ; 
 Piission is reason, transport tpmjier, here. 
 Shall heav'n, which gave us ardour, and has shewn 
 Her own for man so sti-ongly, not disdam 
 What smooth emollients in theology. 
 Recumbent virtue's downy doctors preach. 
 That prose of piety, a lukewarm praise ?
 
 Akenside. 2d8 
 
 Else odours sweet from incense uninflam'd ? 
 Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout : 
 But when it glows, its heat is struck to heav'n ; 
 To human hearts her golden harps are strung ; 
 High heav'n's orchestra chaunts Amen to man. 
 Hear I, or dream I hear, their distant strain, 
 Sweet to the soul, and tasting strong of heav'n, 
 Soft wnsted on celestial pity's plume, 
 Thro' the vast spaces oC the universe. 
 To cheer me in this melancholy gloom ? 
 O when will death (now stingless) like a friend, 
 Admit me of their choir? O when will death. 
 This mould' ring, old, partition-wall throw down ? 
 Give beings, one in nature, one abode ? 
 Oh death divine ! that giv'st us to the skies ! 
 Great future ! glorious patron of the past, 
 And present ! when shall I thy shrine adore? 
 From nature's continent, immensely wide, 
 Immensely blost, this little isle of life, 
 This dark, incarcerating colony, 
 Divides us. JIappy day ! that breaks our chain ; 
 That manumits ; that calls from exile home ; 
 That leads to nature's great metropolis, 
 And re-admits us, thro' tlie guardinn hand 
 Of elder brotheri<, to our Father's throne; 
 Wlio hears our adv(cate, and, thro' his wounds 
 Beholding man, allows the tender name. 
 'Tis this makes christian triumph a command : 
 'Tis this makes joy a duty to the wise ; 
 'Tis impious in a good man to be sad." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AKENSIDE. 
 
 Akenside. Cooper in his Lectures on Taste, says, "For my 
 part I am of opinion, that there is now livinL,^ a poet of as genuine 
 a genius as this kingdom ever produced, Shakespeare aloneexcepted. 
 By poetical genius, I do not mean the mere talent of making verses, 
 but that glorious enthusiasm of soul, that tine phrenzy in which the 
 eye rolling glaiues from lu-a:'cn to eartli, from earth to heaven, as 
 Shakespeare feelingly describes it. Tills alone is poetry : aught 
 else is a mechanical art of putting syllables harmoniously together.
 
 264 A kenside. 
 
 The poet, I allude to is Dr, Akenside, the Author of the ^Pleasure 
 of Imagiftaiiofi,^ the most beautiful didactic poem that ever adorned 
 the English language." 
 
 In the writings of Akenside we may trace the effusions of a mind 
 devoted to the interest of humanity, and ardently desiring to pro- 
 mote the cause of public and private virtue. His works mark at 
 once originality of genius, and sublimity of sentiment. He appeals 
 to the heart, disdaining to misguide the feeling by the lure of 
 harmony, or amuse the fancy at the expense of the understanding. 
 We read the man throughout his numerous and varied subjects : 
 from a general view of which it will appear, that he was fully im- 
 pressed with the truth of his own remark, that, "the writer who 
 held the pen without duly considering the welfare of society, should 
 be considered an alien, heedless of its interests, and in everyway 
 unworthy its blessings." And Akenside has not only written this 
 remark, but every line of his beautiful poem on The Pleasures of 
 I viagtnaiion convinces his reader that he was fully satisfied with 
 the truth of it. It is a poem which will bear to be compared in 
 point of sublimity of language and harmony of arrangement, with 
 the most celebrated productions of antiquity. We may also dis- 
 cover in his works, an extensive acquaintance with the ancient 
 literature, and his ardent attachment to the cause of civil and reli- 
 gious liberty. His politics were thougthto incline to republicanism, 
 but no evidence to this point is to be deduced from his poems. 
 His theology also was supposed to have verged towards Deism; 
 but in his Ode to the Bishop of Winchester and To the Author of 
 Memoirs of the House of Brandeniurgli ; he has testified his regard 
 for pure Christianity, and of his dislike of attempts for setting men 
 free from the restraints of religion, but a solicitude to have the 
 christian revelation preserved in its native purity. 
 
 For example in the last two stanzas of the latter Ode, 
 
 ' O evil foresight and pernicious care ! 
 Wilt thou indeed abide by lliis appeal? 
 Shall we the lessons ol' thy pen compare 
 With private honour or with public zeal?
 
 Akenside. 265 
 
 Whence then at things divine those darts of scorn ? 
 Whv are the woes, which virtuous men have borne 
 For sacred truth, a ])ray lo 1 mghter given ? 
 Wliat fl'-nd, what. Ibe of nature urg'd thy arm 
 The Almiglity of his sceptre to disarm? 
 To push this earth adrift and leave it loose from heaven? 
 
 Ye god-like shad('3 of legislators old, 
 Ye who made liome victorious, Athfiis wise, 
 Ye first of mortals witli the bless'd enroU'd, 
 Say did not horror in your bosoms rise, 
 When thus by impious vanity impell'd 
 A niMgistratf, a monarch, ye beheld 
 AfTroiiting civil orders lioliest bauds? 
 Tiiose bands which ye so bibour'd to improve? 
 Those lii>pes and fears of justice from above. 
 Which tam'd the savage worhl to your divine commands," 
 
 From this and many other passages ofAkenside's works, we may 
 see his sincere reverence for the great and fundamental principles of 
 religion : his veneration for the Supreme Being, his exalted senti- 
 ments of the wisdom and benevolene of the Divine Providence, 
 and his zeal for the cause of virtue. In the Ode To the Earl of 
 Hujiiijii^dozuJi, there is an illustration of his attachment to the 
 cause of liberty, religious and civil, expressed and displayed with 
 considerable ardour. 
 
 "The iluse's awful art, 
 And the blest function of the poet's tongue, 
 Ne'er shall thuu blush to hono\u- ; to assert 
 From all that scorned vice or slavish fear hath sung. 
 Nor sliall the blandishment of Tuscan s! rings 
 Warbling at will in ple.'isure's myrtle bower ; 
 Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings 
 By Haltering minstrels paid in evil hour, 
 ^love thee to s))urn the heavenly iluse's reign. 
 A (iiircront strain, 
 And olher 1 hemes 
 From her pro]ihetic shades and hallow'd streams 
 (Thou widl canst witness) meet llu- purged ear: 
 Such, as when (jreece lo liiu- inimorlal shell 
 Rejoieing listeird, t;odlike sounds lo hear ; 
 'J'o hear I lie swefl insl ru 'Ireris tell 
 (While men and heroes tlirong'd around) 
 How life its nob!e-t use may li:id, 
 ]l()\v well t'or frcfdoni lie re.si^n'd ; 
 And bow, by gloi-y, virlne shall be crown'd. 
 Such was the C'hian father's strain 
 To numv a kind doniestie train. 
 
 I I.
 
 266 Akenside. 
 
 Whose pious hearth and genial bowl, 
 Had cheer'd fha revt^rend pilgrim's soul : 
 When, every hospitable rite 
 With equal bounty to requite, 
 ITe struck his magic strings ; 
 And poui-'d spontaneous numbers forth, 
 And s^iz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, 
 And fiird their musing hearts with vast heroic things. 
 ***** 
 'Tis highest heaven's command. 
 That guilty aims should sordid patlis pursue ; 
 That wl\at ensnares the heart should maiin the hand. 
 And virtue's worthless foes be fnlse to glory too. 
 But look on freedom : see, through every age, 
 What labours, perils, griefs, haih she disdain'd I 
 What arms, what regal pride, what pi ifsfly rage, 
 Have liPi- dread offspring conquer 'd or sustain'd ! 
 For Albion wpII have conquei-'d. Let the strains 
 Of happy swains. 
 Which now resound 
 Where Searsdali''s cliffs the swelling pastures bound. 
 Bear witness. There, oft let the farmi-r hail 
 The sacred orchard which embowers his gate, 
 And shew to strangers passing down the vale. 
 
 Where Candish, Bootlie, and Osboi-nesate ; 
 
 When bui-sting from their country's chain, 
 
 Even in the midst of deadly harms. 
 
 Of papal snares and lawless arms, 
 They plann'd for freedom this her noblest reign." 
 
 Possessed with such liberal sentiments as those of Akenside, 
 
 it is the less to be wondered at, that at an early period of his life, 
 
 he planned and wrote his Pleasures of Imagination j which so long 
 
 as genius owns an admirer will ever be valued for chasteness of 
 
 design, sublimity of thought, and all that pleasing witchery which 
 
 marks the spontaneous effusions of genuine poetry. It is said of 
 
 Akenside that "he seems to have possessed an independent mind, 
 
 disposed to free enquiry and liberal investigation, impatient of the 
 
 fetters of superstition, and desirous of avoiding those mazes of 
 
 casuistical theology, which have ever bewildered the imagination, 
 
 and engaged great and good men in endless controversies without 
 
 settling the main point in dispute." It is this disposition which is 
 
 highly laudable in the opinion of men of comprehensive minds, 
 
 that subjected him to the censure of Johnson, who though a pro-
 
 Akenside. 267 
 
 found scholar, and consummate critic, was a violent bigot to his 
 religious and political principles ; as may be seen in reading his 
 biography with attention and impartiality. In one remark of 
 Johnson upon Akenside he observes, " He certainly retained an 
 unnecessary and outrageous zeal for what he called, and thought 
 liberty ; a zeal which sometimes disguises from the world, and not 
 rarely from the mind which it possesses, an envious desire of plun- 
 dering wealth or degrading greatness ; and of which the immediate 
 tendency is innovation and anarchy ; an impetuous eagerness to 
 subvert and confound, with very little care what shall be established." 
 In this remark may be seen, as I have said, an invincible prejudice 
 respecting characters who did not coincide with him concerning 
 these points, in which every man has an undoubted claim to think 
 for himself. 
 
 No poem of so obstruse and elevated a kind was ever so popular 
 as the Pleasures of Ir)iagination ; it is a work which those who 
 have studied the metaphysics of Ihe mind, and have been accus- 
 tomed to investigate abstract ideas, will read with the most lively 
 pleasure ; but those who suppose that in perusing a poem, the mind 
 remains passive, and has nothing to do but to receive impressions, 
 will find many inferior productions much better suited to their 
 purpose. In a passage written by an eminent essayist, the true 
 merit of Akenside is truly and excellently appreciated. "If the 
 genius of Akenside is to be estimated from his poem, it will be found 
 to be lofty and elegant ; chaste, correct, and classical ; not marked 
 with strong traits of originality ; not ardent or exuberant. His 
 enthusiasm was rather of that kind which kindled by reading and 
 imbibing the spirit of authors, than by contemplating at first hand 
 the works of nature. As a veisiller, Akenside is allowed to stand 
 amongst those who have given the most lliiishcd models in blank 
 verse. His periods are long but harmonious : the cadences f.iU 
 with grace, and the measure i;^ supported with uniform dignity. 
 His muse possesses the inicii era/, and /iii;h i\uin;:andi)ig gaii. 
 We shall scarcely tind a low or trivial expression introduced ; a 
 careless or unfmisheu line permitted to stand. His statelincss.
 
 268 Akenside. 
 
 however, is somewhat allied to stiffness ; his verse is sometimes 
 feeble through too rich a redundancy of ornament, and sometimes 
 laboured into a degree of obscurity from too anxious a desire of 
 avoiding natural and simple expressions. " 
 
 The Pleasures of Imagination is a subject the most happy that 
 could have been chosen by a didactic poet, for every step of the 
 disquisition must call up objects of the most attractive kind, and 
 Fancy be made as it were to hold a mirror up to her own charms. 
 Imagination is the very source of poetry, and nothing forced or 
 foreign to the muse, could easily flow from such a subject. The 
 Pleastires of hnagtnation is a noble and beautiful poem, exhibiting 
 many bright displays of genius and fancy, and holding out sublime 
 views of nature, providence, and morality. 
 
 There are many passages in this poem of uncommon beauty and 
 
 originality, which may be taken as ample proofs of the poetic genius 
 
 of Akenside. In pointing cut the natural connection of beauty 
 
 with truth and good, nothing can exceed the following lines for 
 
 poetry and sentiment. 
 
 ' Yon flowery bank 
 
 Cloth'd in the soft magiiilicence of spring, 
 Will not the flocks ajiprove it ? will ihey ask 
 The reedy len for pasture? that clear rill 
 Which trickleth niurniuriiig troni the mossy rock, 
 Yields it less wholesome beverage to the worn 
 And thirsty traveller, than the standing pool 
 With muddy weeds o'ergrown ? Yon rugtifd vine 
 Whose lean and sullen ciiisiers mourn the rage 
 Of JCuriis, will the vine-press or the bowl 
 Peport to hei', as of the swellnig gi-ape 
 Which glitters througii the tendrils, like a gem 
 When fust it meets the sun ? Or what are all 
 The vai'ious charms to life and sense adjoin'd ? 
 Are they not pledges c^f a state entij-e. 
 Where native order reigns, with (;\tv\ jiaif 
 In health, and evoy function well pprform'd? 
 
 Thus then at first was i)eauty sent fr(im heaven, 
 The lovely ministress of trutli and good 
 In this (lark worlil. Foi- truth and good are one ; 
 And beauty dwells in tliem, and they in her, 
 With like [(artici|)ation. \\ he re fore then, 
 O sons of earth, would ye dissolve the tie? 
 I wherefoi'e with a i-ash and greedy aim 
 Seek ye to rove through every flattering scene
 
 Akenside. 269 
 
 Which beauty seems to deck, nor once enquire 
 
 Where is the sufTiago of eternal truth, 
 
 Or wliere the zeal of undeceitful gjood, 
 
 To save your search from folly? Wanting these, 
 
 Lo ! beauty withers in your void embrace 
 
 And with the glittering of an idiot's toy 
 
 Did fancy mock your vows." 
 
 Again, where his refined subject leads him to the praise of truth, 
 
 on which, he contends, virtue alone depends; how honourable is 
 
 this beautiful effusion to his heart and understanding ! 
 
 " Whence also but from truth, the light of minds, 
 
 Ishuiuan foitune glaclden'd with the rays 
 
 Of virtue? with the moral colors thrown 
 
 On every walk of tliis our social scene, 
 
 Adorning for the eye of gods and men 
 
 The passions, actions, liabitudes of life, 
 
 And i-etuierit'g oMrth like heaven, a sacred place 
 
 Where love and praise may take delight to dwell. " 
 
 Then again the following question arrests the heart of sensibility; 
 
 its subject demands attention, whilst its attractive images ensure it. 
 
 '^ Ask tlio faithful youth, 
 
 Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd 
 
 So often fills his arms; so often draws 
 
 His lonely footstejis at the silent hour, 
 
 To pay the uiournful tribute of his tears! 
 
 O ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds 
 
 tSliould ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 
 
 That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise 
 
 Of care and envy, sweet remembraiu'O soothes 
 
 Willi virtue's kindest looks his aching breast, 
 
 Ami turns his tears to rapture. " 
 
 His description of a shipwreck, is picturesque and affecting; it is 
 
 a call upon pity and cannot f.iil to awaken its sentiments. 
 
 Ask the crowd. 
 
 Which flies impatient from the village-walk 
 I'o climb the ni'igli'bouring clil't'ri, when far below 
 The eruel winds iiave hurl d upon the coast 
 Some helpless bark : while sacred pily uielts 
 The general eyi', or teiroi' s iey liar.d 
 Smites ilieii- di.--loi-i,(l limbs and hoi-rent hair ; 
 While every ni'iilier closiM- to h'O- breast 
 Catches her child, and pointing where the waves 
 I''oam through the sliattei-'d ve^-el, shrieks aloud 
 As one poor wretch thai spieads his piteous arms 
 i-'or succour. >wallow'd bv the roaring surge. 
 As now another, dash'd against the rock. 
 Drops lifeless down."
 
 270 Akenside. 
 
 There is also a passage on Taste, written with masterly and ele- 
 gant power, another and an opposite specimen of this poet's great 
 
 genius. 
 
 " Wliat then is taste, but these internal powers 
 Active, and strong, and feelingly alive 
 To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense 
 01' decent and sublime, vfiili quick disgust 
 From things deform d, or disari-ang'd, or gross 
 In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, 
 IS'or purple state, nor culture can bestow? 
 But Ood alone, when first his active hand 
 Imprints the secret bias of the soul. 
 He, mighty Parent ! wise aiid just in all, 
 Free as the vitsil breeze or light of heaven, 
 Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain 
 Who journeys homeward from a sumnier day's 
 Long labour, ^hy, forgetful of his toils 
 And due repose, he loiters to behold 
 The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, 
 O'er all the Western sky ; I'uU soon, I ween. 
 His rude expression and untutoi-'d airs, 
 Beyond the power of language, will unfold 
 The lorm of beauty smiling at Lis heart. 
 How lovely ! how commanding! But though heaven 
 In every bi'east haih sown these early seeds 
 Of love and admiration, yet in vain. 
 Without fair culture's kind parental aid, 
 'Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, 
 And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope 
 The tender plant should rear its blooming head, 
 Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring. 
 Kor yet will every soil with equal stores 
 Eepay the tiller's labour; or attend 
 His will, obsequious, whether to produce 
 The olive or the Lunel. ])ifferent minds 
 Incline to different objects: one pursues 
 The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 
 Ann! her sighs for harmony, and grace. 
 And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires 
 Tlie arcli of heaven, and thuiidei's rock the ground, 
 When fui-iuus wiiiilwinds rend the howling air 
 Ai\A ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, 
 Heaves his ti-nipestnous billows to the sky ; 
 Amid the mighty u[)i-oar, while below 
 The nations Ireniljle. Shal;espeare looks abroad 
 From some high clilf sujierior, and enjoys 
 The elemi-ntal war; but Waller longs, 
 AW on the margin of some fiow'ry stream 
 To spread his careless limbs amid the cool 
 Of plantain shades, and to the list'ning deer
 
 Akenside, 271 
 
 The tale of Blighted vows and love's disdain 
 Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day : 
 Consenting Zephyr sighs, the weeping rill 
 Joins in his plaint melodious; mute the groves; 
 And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn 
 Such and so various are the tastes of men." 
 
 It is vain however to attempt to point out the peculiar merits of 
 a composition where genius makes no pause. The reader must 
 take the work to himself, to contemplate its beauties. 
 
 As a last quotation from this poem, the following may be read 
 
 as a brilliant and powerful example of Akenside's imaginative 
 
 faculties : 
 
 " Then listen while my tongue 
 
 The imalter'd will of heaven wilii faithful awe 
 Reveals ; what old Harmodius wont to te;ich 
 Afy early a>;e ; Ifarmodiu^, who had weigh'd 
 Within liis learned mind wliale"ei- the 8(!hoola 
 Of wisdom, or thy loiiely-wliir'peiing voice, 
 O faithrul nature! dictate of the laws 
 Which govern and sujiport this mighty frame 
 or universal being. Oft the hours 
 From morn to eve have stolen wiiiiiark'd away, 
 While mule attention hunt; upon his lips, 
 As thus the sage iiis awful lale beijaii. 
 
 'Twas in th" windings of an ancietit wood. 
 When spotless youth with solitude resigns 
 To sweet philosophy the stu<Iiou-i day. 
 What time j)iile autumn shade* the silent eve, 
 Mu-ing I rov'd. Of good and evil much, 
 And much of mortal man my thought revolv'd ; 
 When starling full on lancy s gushioL' eye 
 The mournful image of rartlienia's iMte. 
 Tiiat hour, O long belov'd and long deplor'd ! 
 When blooming youth, nor gentlest wisdom's arts, 
 Nor Hyuien's honours gathei'd for tliy bi'ow. 
 Nor all thy lover's, nil thy fither's tears 
 AvailM to snatch thee from the cruel grave; 
 Thy agonizing looks, thy last farewell 
 Struck to the inmost lecling of my soul 
 As wiih tlio hand (if dealh. At once the shade 
 More horrid nodded o'er \w\ and the wirids 
 With lioarser murmuring slionk the liranclies. Dark 
 As midniLiht storms, the scene of human ihings 
 Ap]iear'd lielore me ; desei-ls. burmng sands. 
 Wuere the pai-ch'd add 'i- dies ; the Crozeil soutli, 
 And desolatnm blasting all the west 
 With ra]iine and witli mni-der: tyrant power 
 Ilore sits enthron'd with blood: the baleful charms
 
 272 Akenstde. 
 
 Of superstition there infeot the skies, 
 
 And turn the sun to horror, Gracious Heaven ! 
 
 What is the life of man ? Or cannot theses 
 
 Not these portents ihy awful will suffice ? 
 
 That, propagated tiius beyond their scope, 
 
 They rise to act their cruelties anew 
 
 In iny afflicted bosom, thus decreed 
 
 The universal sensitive of pain. 
 
 The wretched heir of eviis not its own ! 
 
 Thus I impatient ; when, at once effus'd, 
 A flashing torrent of celestial day 
 Burst thro' the shadowy void. With slow descent 
 A purple cloud came floating through the sky, 
 And pois'd at length within tiie circling trees. 
 Hung obvious to mv view; till opening wide 
 Its lucid oib, a more than human form 
 Emerging leaii'd mnjestic o'er my head. 
 And instant thunder shook the conscious grove. 
 Then melted into air tlie liquid cloud, 
 And all the shining vi.sion stood i-eveal'd. 
 A wreath of palm his ample foi-elir-ad bound 
 And o'er his shoulder, mantling to liis l^nee, 
 Flow'd the transparent robe, arotmd his waist 
 Collected with a radiant zone of gold 
 Etliei-ial : there in mys'ic signs engrav'd, 
 I read his otFice high and sacred name, 
 Genius of human kind. Appall'd I gnz'd 
 The godlike presence ; for athwart his brow 
 Displeasure, teniper"d with a mild concern, 
 Look'd dovvn reluctant on me, and his words 
 Like distant thunders broke the murmuring air. 
 
 I look'd, and lo I the former scene was chang'd ; 
 For verdant alleys and surrounding trees, 
 A solitary prospect, wide and wild, 
 Eush'd on my senses. 'Twas an horrid pile 
 Of hills with many a shaggy foi-est mix'd, 
 With many a sable cliff and glittering stream. 
 Aloft recumbent o'er the hanging ridge. 
 The brown woods wav'd ; whilp ever-trickling springs 
 Wash'd from the naked roots of oak and pine 
 The crumbling soil ; and still at every fall 
 Down the steep windings of the channell'd rock, 
 Remurmuring rush'd the congregated floods 
 With hoaser inundation ; till at last 
 Tliey reach'd a grassy plain, which from the skirts 
 Of that higli desert spread her verdant Inp, 
 And drank the gushing moisture, where confin'd 
 In one smooth current, o'er the lilied vale
 
 Akenside. 273 
 
 Clearer than glass it flow'd. Autumnal spoils 
 
 Luxuriant spreading to the rays of morn, 
 
 Blush'd o'er the cliffs, whose half-encircling mound 
 
 As in a sylvan theatre enclos'd 
 
 That flowery level. On the river brink 
 
 I spy'd a fair pavilion, which diffus'd 
 
 Its floating umbrage 'mid the silver shade 
 
 Of osiers. Now the western sun leveal'd 
 
 Between two parting clifis his golden orb, 
 
 And pour'd across the shadows of the hills, 
 
 On rocks and floods, a yellow stream of light 
 
 That cheer'd the solemn scene. My listening powers 
 
 Were aw'd, and every thought in silence hung 
 
 And wondering expectation. Then the voice 
 
 Of that celestial power, the mystic show 
 
 Declaring, thus my deep attention cuU'd. 
 
 ****)( * 
 
 Looking up, I view'd 
 
 A vast gigantic specti-e striding on 
 
 Througii nnirmuriug thunders nnd a waste of clouds. 
 
 With dreadful action, lilackas niglit liis brow 
 
 Relentless frowns iuvolv'd. His savage limbs 
 
 With sharp impatience violent he wrilh'd, 
 
 As tiirougli convulsive anguish ; and his hand, 
 
 Aim'd with a scorpion-lash, lull oft he rais'd 
 
 In madness to his bosom ; while bis eyes 
 
 Rain'd bitter tears, nnd bellowing loud he shook 
 
 Tile void with horror. Silent by his side 
 
 The virgin came. No diseotnposure stirr'd 
 
 Her features. From the glooms wliich hung around, 
 
 No stain of darkness mingled with the l>eam 
 
 Of iier divine effuljience. Now they stoop 
 
 Upon tlie river bank ; and now to hail 
 
 His wonted guests, with eager steps advanc'd 
 
 The unsuspecting inmate of the shade. 
 
 As when a fiimish'd wolf, that all night long 
 Had rang'd the Alpine snows. l)y cliance at mom 
 Sees from a cliff incumbent o'er the smoke 
 Of some lone village, a neglected kid 
 That strays along the wild for herb or spring ; 
 Down fri>m the winding ridge he sweeps amain, 
 And thinks he tears him : so witli tenfold rage, 
 The monster sprung remorseless on his prey, 
 Amaz'd the stripling stood : with panting breast 
 I'"eeble he jiourd the lamentable wail 
 Of helpless consteination, struck at once, 
 And rooted to the ground. The cjueen beheld 
 His terror, and with looks of lenderest care 
 Advanc'd to save him. Soon the tyrant felt 
 Her awful power. His keen, tempestuous arm 
 
 I s.
 
 274 Akenside. 
 
 Hung nerveless, nor descended where his rage 
 
 Had aim'd the deadly blow: then dumb retir'd 
 
 With sullen rancour. Lo ! the sovran maid 
 
 Folds with a mother's arms the fainting boy, 
 
 Till life rekindles in his rosy cheek ; 
 
 Then grasps his hands, and cheers him with her tongue. 
 
 O wake thee, rouse thy spirit ! Shall the spite 
 Of yon tormenter thus appal thy heart, 
 While I, thy friend and guardian, am at hand 
 To rescue and to heal ? O let thy soul 
 Remember, what the will of heaven ordains 
 Is ever good for all ; and if for all, 
 Then good for thee." 
 
 Of his other poems little is to be said. It is impossible to guess 
 why he addicted himself so diligently to lyric poetry, having neither 
 the ease or airiness of the lighter, nor the vehemence and elevation 
 of the grander ode. "When he lays his ill-fated hand upon his 
 harp," says one writer, "his former powers seem to desert him ; 
 he has no longer his luxuriance of expression, nor variety of images. 
 His thoughts are cold and his words inelegant. " 
 
 In his Odes, the sentiment generally wants force or novelty ; 
 the diction is sometimes harsh and the rhymes dissonant and too 
 distant from each other ; but still there is in them a noble vein of 
 poetry, united with manly sense, and applied and excellent pur- 
 poses. The two following Odes, entitle him justly to a place 
 amongst the principal lyric writers of this country. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 " Thou silent power, whose welcome sway 
 
 Charms every anxious thought away ; 
 
 In whose divine oblivion drown'd. 
 
 Sore pain and weary toil grow mild, 
 
 Love is with kinder looks beguil'd. 
 And grief forgets her fondly-cherish'd wound; 
 Oh whither hast thou flown, indulgent god? 
 God of kind shadows and of healing dews, 
 Whom dost thou touch with Lethan rod ? 
 Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse ? 
 
 Lo, midnight from her stany reign 
 I>ooks awful down on earth and main. 
 The tuneful birds lie hush'd in sleep, 
 Witli all that crop the verdant food, 
 With all that skim the crystal flood, 
 Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep,
 
 Akenside. ^ 275 
 
 No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers ; 
 No wai<eful sound the moonliglit valley knows, 
 Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours, 
 And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose. 
 
 let not me alone complain, 
 Alone invoke thy power in vain ! 
 Descend, propitious, on my eyes ; 
 
 Not from the couch that bears a crown, 
 Not from the courtly statesman's down, 
 Nor where the miser and his treasure lie ; 
 Bring not the shapes tliat break the murderer's rest. 
 Nor those the hireling soldier loves to see, 
 Nor those which haunt the bigot's gloomy breast ; 
 Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me 1 
 
 Nor yet those awful forms present, 
 
 For chiefs and heroes only meant : 
 
 The figur'd brass, the choral song. 
 
 The rescued people's glad applause. 
 
 The list'ning senate, and the laws 
 Fix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's tongue, 
 Are scenes too grand for Fortune's private ways, 
 And tho' they shine in youth's ingenious view. 
 The sober-gainful arts of modern days 
 To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu. 
 
 1 ask not, god of Dreams I thy care 
 To banish love's presentiments fair : 
 Nor rosy cheek, nor radiant eye 
 
 Can arm him with such strong command, 
 
 That the young sorc'rers fatal hand 
 Should round my soul his pleasing fetters tie : 
 Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile. 
 (A lighter phantom and a baser chain.) 
 Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguile 
 To lend the pomp of thrones her ill according strain. 
 
 But, Morpheus ! on thy balmy wing 
 
 Such honourable visions bring, 
 
 As sooth'd great Milton's injur'd age, 
 
 When in prophetic dreams he saw 
 
 The race unborn with pious awe 
 Inbibe each virtue from his heavnly page : 
 Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows 
 Wlicn health's deep treasures, by his art explor'd, 
 Have sav'd the infant from an orphan's woes, 
 Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restor'd." 
 
 ON RECOVEKIMG FROM A FIT OF SICKNESS. 
 
 (/// tlu Country.) 
 ''Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's hill, 
 Once more I seek, a languid guest ;
 
 276 Akenside. 
 
 With throbbing temples and with burden'd breast 
 Once more I climb thy steep aerial way. 
 
 faithful cure of oft returning ill, 
 Now call thy sprightly breezes round, 
 Dissolve this rigid cough profound, 
 
 And bid the springs of life with gentler movement play. 
 
 How gladly 'mid the dews of dawn 
 
 By weary lungs thy healing gale. 
 The balmy west or the fresh north, inhale ! 
 How gladly, while my musing footsteps rove 
 Round the cool orchard or the sunny lawn, 
 
 Awak'd I stop, and look to find 
 
 What shrub perfumes the pleasant wind, 
 Or what wild songster charm the Dryads of the grove. 
 
 Now, ere the morning walk is done, 
 
 The distant voice of health I hear 
 Welcome as beauty's to the lover's ear. 
 'Droop not. nor doubt of my return, ' she cries ; 
 
 ' Here will I, 'mid the radiant calm of noon, 
 
 Meet thee beneath yon chestnut bower, 
 
 And lenient on thy bosom pour 
 That indolence divine which lulls the earth and skies.' 
 
 The goddess promis'd not in vain. 
 
 I found lier at my fav'rite time. 
 Nor wish'd to breathe in any softer clime, 
 White (half-reelin'd, half-slumbering as I lay) 
 She hover'd o'er me. Then, among her train 
 
 Of nymphs and zephyrs to my view 
 
 Thy gracious form appeared anew, 
 Then first, O heavenly ]\Iuse, unseen for many a day. 
 
 In that soft pomp the tuneful maid 
 Shone like the golden star of love. 
 
 1 saw lier hand in careless measures move ; 
 I heard sweet jjreludes dancing on her lyre, 
 While tny whole frame the sacred sound obeyed. 
 
 New sunshine o'er my fancy spi-ings, 
 New colours clothe external things. 
 And the last glooms of pain and sickly plaint retire. 
 
 O Goulder's hill, by thee restor'd 
 
 Once more to I his enliven'd hand, 
 i\Iy harp, which late resounded o'er the land 
 The voice of glory, solemn and severe. 
 My Dorian harp shall now with mild accord 
 
 To thee her joyful tribute pay, 
 
 And send a less ambitious lay 
 Of friendship and of love to greet tliy master's ear. 
 
 For when witldn thy shady seat 
 
 First from the sultry town he chose, 
 And the tir'd senate's cares, his wish'd repose,
 
 Langhorne. 277 
 
 Then wast thou mine ; to me a happy home 
 For social leisure : where my welcomp feet, 
 
 Estrang'd from all the entangling ways 
 
 In which tlio restless vulgar sti-ays, 
 Througli nature's simple paths with ancient faith might roam. 
 
 And while around his sylvan scene 
 
 My Dyson led the white wing'd Hours. 
 Oft from th' Athenian Academic bow'is 
 There sages came: oft' heard our ling'ring walk, 
 The Mantuan music warbling o'er the green ; 
 
 And oft did TuUy's rev'rend shade, 
 
 Tho' much for liberty afraid, 
 With us of letter'd ease or virtuous glory talk. 
 
 But other guests were on their way, 
 
 And reach'd ere long this favour'd grove, 
 Even the cclestia j)rogriiy of Jove, 
 Bright Venus I with her all subduing son. 
 Whose golden shaft most willingly obey 
 
 'J'he best and wisest. As they came. 
 
 Glad Hymen wav'd his genial flame. 
 And sang their iia]5py gifts, and prais'd their spotless throne. 
 
 I saw when thro' yon festive gate 
 
 He led along his chosen m-rud, 
 And to my friiMul with smiles presenting said ; 
 ' ]\eceive that fairest wealth wliich Hcav'n assign'd 
 To human fortune. Did ihy lonely state 
 
 One wish, one utmost hope confess? 
 
 Behold ! she comes t' adorn and bless : 
 Comes worthy of thy heart, and equal to thy mind.'" 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 LAXGHORXE. 
 
 Langhorne. As a poet Langhorne's compositions are distin- 
 guished by undoubted marks of genius; a fine imagination and a 
 sensible heart. Im;igcry and cnthusia-m, the gre.it essenti.ds of 
 poetry, inspirit all liis works, .and jilaco them f.ir alcove the str.un 
 of vulgar compositions. 'Ihe tenduaicss of love, and tlie soft 
 langu;ige of cmnjilaint, were aii.iiitctl to hi> genius, as well as ele- 
 vation of thouglil. opuKiicc of im.igery, and the highest beauties 
 of poetry. But the qualities for whicli he is chitfly distinguislied, 
 are imagination, pathos, and simphcity, animated sentiment,
 
 278 Langhorne. 
 
 warmth and vivacity of expression, and a melodious versification. 
 His sentimental productions are exquisitely tender and beautiful ; 
 his descriptive compositions show a feeling heart, and a warm 
 imagination ; and his lyric pieces are pregnant with the genuine 
 spirit of poetical enthusiasm : but his style in the midst of much 
 splendour and strength, is sometimes harsh and obscure, and may 
 be censured as deficient in ease and distinctness. His chief faults 
 are redundant decoration, and an affectation of false and unneces- 
 sary ornament. He is not always contented with that concise and 
 simple language, which is sufficient to express his sentiments, but is 
 tempted to indulge in superfluous diction, by the facinating charms 
 of novelty and harmony. By giving way to the luxury of words, 
 and immoderate embellishment, he sometimes, though rarely, vio- 
 lates simplicity and becomes unavoidably inaccurate and redundant. 
 His sentiments, however, are always just, often new, and generally 
 striking. A great deal of elegance and classical simplicity runs 
 through all his compositions ; and his descriptions of nature, rural 
 imagery, pictures of private virtue, and pastoral innocence, have a 
 judicious selection of circumstances, a graceful plainness of expres- 
 sion, and a happy mixture of pathos and sentiment which mark 
 the true poet. His Death of Adonis is a classical and spirited 
 translation of one of the most beautiful pastoral poems of antiquity. 
 The numbers are musical and flowing, and the diction easy and 
 elegant. The opening passage will amply illustrate the foregoing 
 remarks. 
 
 "Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn ; 
 
 Adonis dead, the weeping loves return. 
 
 The queen of Ijeauty o'er his tomlj shall shed 
 
 Her flowing sorrows for Adonis dead ; 
 
 For eai'th's cold lap her velvet couch forego, 
 
 And robes of purple for the weeds of woe, 
 
 Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn ; 
 
 Adonis dead, the weeping loves return. 
 
 Stretch'd on this mountain thy torn lover lies, 
 
 Weep, queen of beauty I for he bleeds he dies. 
 
 Ah ! yet behold life's List drops faintly flow, 
 
 In streams of junple. o'er those Innbs of snow I 
 From the pale cheek the perish'd roses fly, 
 
 And death dims slow the ghastly gazing eye.
 
 Langhome, 279 
 
 Kiss, kiss those fading lips, ere chill'd in death ; 
 
 With sootliing fondness stay the fleeting breath. 
 
 'Tis vain ! ah ! give tlie soothing fondness o'er I 
 
 Adonis feels the warm salute no more. 
 
 Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn ; 
 
 Adonis dead, the weeping loves return. 
 
 His faithful dogs bewail their master slain : 
 
 And inMurning dryads pour the plaintive strain. 
 Not the fair youtli alone the wound opprest, 
 
 The queen of beauty hears it in her breast, 
 
 Her feet unsandled, floating wild her hair, 
 
 Her aspect woeful, and her bosom bare, 
 
 Distrest, she wanders the wild waste forlorn, 
 
 Her sacred limbs by ruthless brambles torn, 
 
 Loud as she grieves, surrounding rocks complain, 
 
 And echo through the long vales calls her absent swain. 
 
 Adonis hears not : Life's last drops falls slow 
 
 In streams of ]iurple, down his limbs of snow. 
 
 The weejiing Cupids round their queen deplore, 
 
 And mourn her beauty and her love no more. 
 
 Each rival grace that glow'd with conscious pride, 
 
 Each charm of Venus witli Adonis dy'd. 
 
 Adonis dead, the vocal iiills bemoan 
 
 And hollow groves return the saddening groan. 
 
 The swelling floods with sea-born Venus weep. 
 
 And roll in mournful numliers to the dee}) : 
 
 In melting tears tiie mountain-springs comply : 
 
 The flow'rs low-drooping, blush with grief and die. 
 
 Cythera's groves with str;iins of sorrow ring: 
 
 The dirge funereal her sad cities sing. 
 
 ***** 
 Thu.s Venus griev'd the Cupids round deplore, 
 
 And mourn her beauty and her love no more. 
 
 Now flowing tears in silent grief conq>bnn, 
 
 Mix with the purjile streams, and flood the plain. 
 
 Yet not in vain those sacred drops shall flow, 
 
 The purple streams in blushing roses glow ; 
 
 And catching life from ev'ry filling tear. 
 
 Their azure heads anemonies shall rear," 
 
 The PoejK to tJie Metnory of Hatidel, may be considered as 
 the genuine and animated wailings of poetry, who deplores her 
 sister's loss in Handel, in very elegant and harmonious verse. 
 There is a considerable variety in the numbers, but they are excel- 
 lently adajited to the subject, and modulated to a judicious 
 correspondence with the images, and the sentiments. In the fol- 
 lowing passage, the pauses and cadences of the numbers are, so 
 sweet and mutable, that it must revive the idea of a band in the
 
 280 Langhorne, 
 
 mind of every amateur of the science of music. 
 
 "I feel, T feel tbe sacred impulse, hark! 
 
 Wak'd fi-om according lyi-es the sweet strains flow 
 
 In syinpliony divine ; from air to air 
 
 The trembling numbers fly : swift bursts away 
 
 The flow of joy tiow swells the flight of praise. 
 
 Springs the slirill trump aloft ; the toiling chords 
 
 Melodious labour through the flying maze ; 
 
 And the deep base his strong sound rolls away, 
 
 Majestically sweet Yet, Handel, raise, 
 
 Yet wake to higher strains thy sacred lyre : 
 
 The name of ages, the supreme of things 
 
 The great Messiah asks it ; He whose hand 
 
 Led into form yon everlasting orbs, 
 
 The harmony of nature He whose hand 
 
 Stretch'd o'er the wilds of space this beauteous ball, 
 
 Whose spirit breathes, through all his smiling works 
 
 Music and love yet Handel raise the strain. " 
 
 The Ode to the River Eden, is pretty and fanciful, and another 
 
 specimen of the harmony of his numbers, especially the fourth 
 
 stanza : 
 
 "But, Fancy, can thy mimic power 
 Again those happy moments bring? 
 C'ans't thou restore that golden hour, 
 When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing? 
 When first in Eden's rosy vale, 
 My full heart pour'd the lover's tale, 
 The vow sincere, devoid of giiile I 
 While Delia in her panting breast. 
 With siglis the tender thought supprest, 
 And looked as angels smile." 
 
 Again in the Hyt/m to Hope, the versification and diction is 
 
 smooth and elegant, while the imagery is most pleasing, and the 
 
 sentiment simple and pathetic. The following are the first seven 
 
 stanzas. 
 
 "Sun of the soul ! whose cheerful ray 
 
 Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile ; 
 
 Sweet Hope, yet further gild my way. 
 
 Yet light my weary steps awhile. 
 
 Till tliy fair lamp dissolve in endless day. 
 
 O come with such an eye and mien. 
 
 As wlien by amorous she))lierd seen ; 
 
 While in tlie violet-breathing vale 
 
 He meditates his evening tale! 
 
 Nor leave behind thy fairy train, 
 
 Repose, belief, and fancy vain ; 
 
 That, towering on her wing sublime.
 
 Langhorne. 281 
 
 Outstrips the lazy flight of time, 
 Eiiots on distant clays with thee, 
 And opens all futurity. 
 
 O come ! and to my pensive eye 
 Thy far-foreseeing tube apply, 
 Whose kind deception steals us o'er 
 The gloomy waste that lies before ; 
 Still opening to the distant sight 
 The sunshine of the mountains height ; 
 Where scenes of fairer aspect rise, 
 Elysian groves, and azure skies. 
 
 Nor, gentle Hope, forget to bring 
 
 The family of Youth and Spring ; 
 
 The Hours that glide in sprightly round, 
 
 The mountain nymphs with wild thyme crown'd ; 
 
 Delight that dwells with raptwr'd eye 
 
 On stream, or flower, or field or sky : 
 
 And foremost in thy train advance 
 
 The Loves and Joys in jovial dance ; 
 
 Nor last be Expectation seen, 
 
 That wears a wreath of evergreen. 
 
 Attended thus by Bcleau's streams. 
 
 Oft bust thou sooth'd my waking dreams, 
 
 When, prone beneath an osier shade, 
 
 At large my vacant limbs were laid ; 
 
 To thee and fancy all resign'd, 
 
 What visions wander'd o'er my mind ! 
 
 Illusions dear, adieu I no more 
 Shall I your fairy haunts explore ; 
 For Hope withholds her golden i-ay, 
 And fancy's colours faint away. 
 To Eden's shores, to Enon's groves. 
 Resounding once with Delia's loves, 
 Adieu ! that name shall sound no more 
 O er Enon's groves or Eden's shore ; 
 For Hope withholds her golden ray, 
 And fancy's colours faint away. 
 
 Life's ocean slept the liquid gale 
 Gently mov'd the waving fail. 
 Fallacious Hope I with ilattering eye 
 You sniil'd to see the streamers ily. 
 The thunder bursts, the nuad wind raves 
 From slumber wake the fri^rbted waves: 
 You saw me, fled nie thus distrest. 
 And tore your iinchor from my breast. 
 Yet come, fair t'ugitivt>, again ! 
 I love thee still, though false and vain, 
 Forgive me, gentle Hope, and tell 
 Where, far IVoni nie, you deign to dwell, 
 
 1 L.
 
 282 Langhome. 
 
 To soothe Ambition's wild desires; 
 To feed the lover's eager fires ; 
 To swell the miser's mouldy store ; 
 To gild the dreaming chymist's ore ; 
 Are these thy cares ? or more humane ? 
 To loose the war-worn captive's chain, 
 And bring before his languid sight 
 The charms of liberty and light ; 
 The tears of drooping grief to dry ; 
 And hold thy glass to Sorrow's eye. " 
 
 His Visions of Fancy ^ are the effusions of a contemplative mind, 
 
 sometimes plaintive and always serious, but too attentive to the 
 
 glitter of the slight ornaments. The thoughts are pure, simple, 
 
 and pathetic ; and the lines are such as elegy requires smooth, 
 
 easy, and flowing ; but the same fault prevails, and the diction is 
 
 often affected, while the phrase is unskilfully inverted. They are 
 
 too long to be fully quoted, but the reader can fully estimate their 
 
 true value, by the following, the first of the four elegies. 
 
 "Children of Fancy whither are ye fled ? 
 Where have you borne those hope-enliven'd hours, 
 That once with mirtle garlands bound my head, 
 That once bestrew'd my vernal path with flowers ? 
 
 In yon fair vale, where blooms the beechen grove, 
 Where winds the slow wave tliro' the flowery plain. 
 To these fond arms you led the tyrant. Love, 
 With Fear and Hope and Folly in his train. 
 
 My Ijre, that, left at careless distance, hung 
 Light on some pale branch of the osier sliode, 
 To lays of amorous blandishment you strung, 
 And o'er my steep the lulling music play'd. 
 
 'Rest, gentle youth .' wliile on the quivering breeze 
 Slides to thine ear this softly breathing strain ; 
 Sounds that move smoother than the steps of ease, 
 And pom- oblivion in the ear of pain. 
 
 'In this fair vale eternal spi-ing shall smile, 
 And Time unenvious crown each roseat hour ; 
 Eternal joy shall every care beguile, 
 Breathe in each gale, and bloom \w every flower. 
 'This silver stream, that down its crystal way 
 Frequent hns led thy musing steps along. 
 Shall, still the same, in sunny mazes jjlay. 
 And with its murmurs melodious the song. 
 
 Unfading green shall these fair groves adorn ; 
 Those living meads immortal flowers unfold ;
 
 Langhome. 283 
 
 In rosy emiles shall rise each blushing morn 
 And every evening close in clouds of gold. 
 
 'The tender Loves that watch thy slumbering rest, 
 And round thee flowers and balmy myrtles strew, 
 Shall cliarm, thro' all approaching life, thy breast, 
 With joys for ever pure, for ever new. 
 
 'The genial power that speeds the golden dart, 
 Each charm of tender passion shall inspire ; 
 With fond affection fill the mutual heart, 
 And feed the flame of ever young Desire. 
 
 'Come gentle Loves ! your myrtle garlands bring ; 
 The smiling bower with cluster'd roses spread ; 
 Come gentle Airs ! with incense dropping wing. 
 The breathing sweets of vernal odour shed. 
 
 'Hark as the strains of swelling music rise, 
 How the notes vibrate on the fav'ring gale ! 
 Auspicious glories beam along the skies, 
 And powers unseen the happy moments hail ! 
 
 'Ecstatic hours 1 so every distant day 
 Like the serene on downy wings shall move ; 
 Rise crown'd with joys that triumph o'er decay, 
 The faithful joys of Fancy and of Love.'" 
 
 The Autumnal Elegy deserves still more, and unqualified com- 
 mendation. Take for instance, the following stanzas. 
 
 "Yet, ere ye slumber, songsters of the sky, 
 Through the long niglit of winter wild and drear : 
 O let U9 tune, ere love and fancy die, 
 One tender farewell to the fading year. 
 
 Farewell ye wild hills, scattcr'd o'er wilh spring! 
 Sweet solitude, where Flora sniil'd unseen ! 
 Farewell eaeli breeze of Imlmy burden'd wing! 
 The violet's blue bank, and the tall wood green I 
 
 Ye tuneful groves of Belvidere, adieu ! 
 Kind sliades that whisper o'er my Crauford's rest ! 
 From courts, from senates, and from camps to you, 
 W^lien fancy leads him, no inglorious guest. 
 
 Dear shades, adieu I where late the moral muse. 
 Led by the Dryad, Silence, oft reelin'd, 
 Taught Areanness to extend lier little views. 
 And look on Nature to enlarge her mind. 
 
 Farewell the walk along the woodland vale ! 
 Flower- feeding rills in murmurs drawn away! 
 Farewell the sweet breath of the early gale. 
 And the dear glories of the closing day !
 
 284 Langhorne. 
 
 The nameless charms of high, poetic thought, 
 That Spring's green hours lo Fancy's children bore ; 
 The words divine, imagination wrote 
 On Slumber's liglit leaf, by the murmuring shore. 
 
 All, all adieu ! from Autumn's sober power 
 Fly the dear dreams of Spring's delightful reign ; 
 Gay summer strips her rosy-mantled bower, 
 And rude winds waste the glorious of her train, 
 
 Yet Autumn yields her joys of humbler kind ; 
 Sad o'er the golden ruins as we stray, 
 Sweet Melancholy soothes the musing mind. 
 And Nature's charms, delightful in decay. 
 
 All-bounteous power, whom happy worlds adore. 
 With every scene some grateful change she brings 
 In winter's wild snows, autumn's golden store, 
 In glowing summers, and in blooming springs ! 
 
 O most belov'd ! the fairest and the best 
 Of all her works ! may still thy lover find 
 Fair Nature's frankness in thy gentle breast ; 
 Like her be various, but like her be kind. 
 
 Then, when the spring of smiling youth is o'er ; 
 When summer's glories yields to autumn's sway ; 
 When golden autumn sinks in winter's hoar ; 
 And life's declining yields its last weak ray ; 
 
 In thy lov"d arms my fainting age shall close, 
 On thee my fond eye bends its trembling light : 
 Remembrance sweet shall soothe my last repose, 
 And my soul bless thee in eternal night. " 
 
 In fire and force of numbers and in the use and harmonious 
 flow of his versification, his Genius and Valour, is equal to any 
 poem of its kind. In the passage where he celebrates the natives 
 of North Britain, who have been distinguished for their genius and 
 learning; the representation of the four seasons appearing to Thom- 
 son and claiming the palm, like the fabled competition of the rural 
 goddesses before the royal shepherd, is entitled to the highest 
 praise. The ^'Seasofis'' are distinguished by a brilliancy of colour- 
 ing, and a distinctness and propriety of attribute, that rival, if not 
 surpass, what we meet with of the kind even in Thomson. 
 
 "O favour'd stream ! where thy fair current flows. 
 The cliild of nature, gentle Thomson, rose. 
 Young as he wander'd on thy flowery side, 
 With simple joy to see thy bright waves glide,
 
 Langhorne. 285 
 
 Thither, in all their native charms array'd, 
 From climes remote the sister Seasons stray'd. 
 
 Long each in beauty boasted to excel, 
 (For jealousies in sister-bosoms dwell) 
 But now, delif^hled with t!ie liberal boy. 
 Like heaven's f;iir rivals in tjie groves of Troy, 
 Yield to an humble swain their high debate, 
 And from his voice the pahii of beauty wait. 
 
 Her naked charms, like Venus, to disclose. 
 Spring from her bosom through the shadowing rose ; 
 Bar'd the pure snow that feeds the lover's fire, 
 The breast that thrills with exquisite desire ; 
 Assum'd the tender smile, the melting eye, 
 The breath savonian, and the yielding sigli. 
 One beauteous hand a wilding's blossom grac'd, 
 And one fell careless o'er lier zoneless waist. 
 Majestic .Summer, in gay j:)ride adorn'd. 
 Her rival sister's simple beauty scornd. 
 With purple wreaths her lofty brows were bound. 
 With glowing flowers licr rising Ixisom ciown'd. 
 In her gay zone, by artful F'ancy fnim'd. 
 The briglit rose blush'd, the full carnation fiam'd ; 
 Her cheeks the glow of splendid clouds display. 
 And her eyes flash insufferable day. 
 
 With milder air the gentle Autumn came, 
 But seem'd to languish at lier sister's flame. 
 
 Yet. conscious of her boundless '.vcalth, she bore 
 On high the emblems of her golden store. 
 Yet could she boast the plenty pouring hand, 
 The liberal smile, benevolent and bland ; 
 Nor might she fear in beauty lo excel. 
 From wiiose fair head such golden tresses fell : 
 Nor might she envy Summer's flowery zone. 
 In whose sweet eye the star of evening shone. 
 
 Next, the pnlo power, that blots the golden sky, 
 Wreiith'd her grim brows, and roll'd her stormy eye; 
 'Behold,' she cried, with voice that shook the ground, 
 (The l)ard, the sisters trembled at the sound) 
 'Yi> weak .idniirers of a gi'ai'o, Or rose, 
 'Behold my wild magnilicence of snows.' 
 'See my keen frost her ghis>y h"Siiin liare .' 
 'Mock the fiint sun, and hind the lluid air I 
 'Xiiture to you may lend a ]);iiiit<'d hour. 
 'With you may sport. wh"n I susjieiid my power. 
 'But vou and nature, what tli.at power obey. 
 '.Sh:ill own my liranty, oi- -\\.\\\ dre.^d my sway.' 
 
 The diction contains an elcl.,^lnt coiiiplinient to the noble poet 
 
 of the Seasons. 
 
 ' the bard, whose gentle heart ne'er gave
 
 286 Langhorne, 
 
 One pain or trouble that he knew to save 
 No favour'd nymph extols with partial lays, 
 But gives to each her picture for her praise." 
 
 The poet's love of nature is seen throughout all his works. In 
 the Enlargement of the Mind, he recommends the study of nature 
 in order to enlarge our minds by a due contemplation of her works. 
 " Judg'd not the old philosopher aright, 
 
 When thus he preach'd, his pupils in his sight? 
 
 It matters not, my friends, how low or high, 
 
 Your little walk of transient life may lie; 
 
 Soon will the reign of hope and fear be o'er, 
 
 And warring passions militate no more : 
 
 And trust me, he who, having once survey'd 
 
 The good and fair whieli nature's wisdom made, 
 
 The soonest to his former state retires, 
 
 And feels the peace of satisfied desires, 
 
 (Let others deem more wisely if they can) 
 
 I louk on him to be the happiest man. 
 
 So thought the sacred sage, in whom 1 trust, 
 
 Because I feel his sentiments are just. 
 
 'Twas not in histrums of long counted years 
 
 That swell'd th' alternate reign of hopes and fears ; 
 
 Not in tbe splendid scenes of pain and strife, 
 
 That wisdom plac'd the dignity of life; 
 
 To study Nature was llie task design'd, 
 
 And learn from her th' enlargement of the mind. 
 
 Learn from her works whatever truth admires. 
 
 And sleep in death with satisfied desires." 
 
 This poem, however, on the whole, is rather defective, though it 
 
 possesses in many parts, the concise and happy expression, and 
 
 the melodious versification of Pope's Essay on Alan ; which may 
 
 be seen by comparing the passages already quoted from that work. 
 
 In the first and second Epistles, there is more poetry than plan. 
 
 The panegyric on Reason is eminently beautiful. 
 
 " O ! still censorious? art thou then possess'd 
 Of Reason's power, and does she rule thy breast ? 
 Say what the use had providence assign'd 
 To infant years maturity of mind ? 
 That thy pert offspring, as their father wife, 
 Might scorn thy percepts, and thy pow'r despise ? 
 Or mourn, with ill-miitch"d faculties of stife ? 
 Or limbs imequal to the task of life ? 
 To feel more sensibly the woes that wait 
 On every period, as on every state ; 
 And flight, sad convicts of the painful truth.
 
 Langhorne. 287 
 
 The happier trifles of unthinking youth ? 
 
 Conclude we then the progress of the mind 
 Orlain'd by wisdom infinitely kind 
 No innate knowledge on the soul imprest, 
 No birthright instinct acting on the breast, 
 No natal light, no beams from heav'n displaj'd. 
 Dart through the darkness of the mental shade. . 
 Perceptive powers we hold from heaven's decree, 
 Alike to knowledge as to virtue free, 
 In both a liberal agency we bear, 
 The moral here, the intellectual there ; 
 And hence in both an equal joy is known. 
 The conscious pleasure of an act our own. 
 When first the trembling eye perceives the day. 
 External forms on young Perception play ; 
 External forms affect the mind alone, 
 Their difTrent powers and properties unknown. 
 See the pleas'd infant court the flaming brand. 
 Eager to grasp the glory in its hand ! 
 The crystal wave as eager to pervade, 
 Stretch its fond arms to meet tlie smiling shade ! 
 When Memory's call the Mimic words obey, 
 And wing the thought that falters on his way ; 
 When wise Experience her slow verdict draws. 
 The sure effect exploring in her cause, 
 In Nature's rude, but not unfruitful wild, 
 Reflection springs, and Reason is her child, 
 On her fair stock the blooming scyon grows, 
 And brighter through revolving seasons blows. 
 
 All beauteous flower ! immortal shalt thou shine, 
 When dim with age yon golden orbs decline ; 
 Thy orient bloom, unconcious of decay, 
 Shall spread, and flourish in eternal day. 
 
 O I with what art, my friend, what early care, 
 Should wisdom cultivate a jilant so fair! 
 How should her eye the rip'ning mind revise, 
 And blast the buds of folly as they rise? 
 How should her hand, with industry restrain, 
 Tlie thriving growth ofpassions t'ruitful train, 
 Aspiring weeds, whose lofty arms would tow r 
 With fatal shade o'er reason's tender llowcr." 
 
 The description of the j^raceful arts that flock round the throne 
 
 of science, particular!}- Poetry^ Painting, Sculpture, and Music is 
 
 appropriate and striking, besides being elegantly and pleasingly 
 
 written. 
 
 See favour'd first, iuid nciirest to the throne. 
 J3y the rapt mien of niutiincr Silence known 
 Fled from herself the pow'r of munliers plac'd.
 
 288 Langhorne. 
 
 Her wild thoughts watch'd by Harmony and Taste. 
 
 There (but at distance never ment to vie.) 
 The full-tbrm'd image glancing on her eye, 
 See lively painting ! on her various face, 
 Quick-gliding forms a moment find a place 
 She looks, she acts the character he gives, 
 And a new feature in each feature lives. 
 
 See attic ease in Sculpture's graceful air. 
 Half loose her robe, and half unbound her hair ; 
 To life, to life, she smiling seems to call, 
 And down her fair hands negligently fall 
 
 Last, but not meanest, of the glorious choir, 
 See Music, list'ning to an angel's lyre. 
 
 Simplicity, their beauteous handmaid, drest 
 By Nature, bears a field-flower on her breast. 
 
 O arts divine ! O magic powers that move 
 The springs of Truth, enlarging Truth, and Love ! 
 Lost in their charms each mean attachment ends, 
 And Taste and Knowledge thus are Virtue's friend." 
 
 The Verses to the Memory of a Lady, rank with the celebrated 
 
 elegiac composition of Lyttleton and Shaw, to which they are equal 
 
 in poetical merit, and scarcely inferior in pathetic tenderness. 
 
 They must please everybody, because there are beauties in them 
 
 which affect everybody. The following lines must touch every 
 
 heart, 
 
 " See the last aid of her expiring state, 
 See Love, e'en Love, has lent his darts to Fate ! 
 Oh I when beneath his golden shafts I bled. 
 And vainly bound his trophies on ray head ; 
 When, crown'd with flowers, he led the rosy day, 
 Liv'd to my eye, and drew my soul away 
 Could fea)-, could fancy at that tender hour, 
 See the dim grave demand the nuptial flower? 
 
 There, there his wreaths dejected Hymen strew'd ; 
 And mourii'd their bloom unfaded as he view'd. 
 There each fair hope, each tenderness of life, 
 Each nameless charm of soft obliging strife, 
 Delight, love, fancy, pleasure, genius fled, 
 And the best pas3ions of my soul lie dead ; 
 All, all is there in cold oblivion laid, 
 But pale reuienibrance bending o'er a shade. " 
 
 In his Fables of Flora, the plan is somewhat enlarged, and the 
 province is far extended that the original narrative and moral may 
 be accompanied with imagery, description, and sentiment. The 
 plan is judicious, and the execution admirable. None of his com- 
 positions bear stronger marks of poetical invention and enthusiasm
 
 Langhorne. 289 
 
 nor are distinguished in a more eminent degree by simplicity, 
 
 tenderness, and delicacy ; and none have a stronger tendency to 
 
 promote the love and the interests of humanity. Perhaps the last 
 
 of these compositions is the "Misletoe and the Passion Flower." 
 
 "In this dim cave a druid sleeps, 
 Where stops the passuig gale to moan ; 
 The rofik he hoUow'd, o'er him weeps, 
 And cold drops wear the fretted stonp. 
 
 In this dim cave, of different creed, 
 An hermit's holy ashes rest : 
 The school-boy finds the frequent bead, 
 Which many a formal matin blest. 
 
 That truant-time full well I know. 
 When here I brought, in stolen hour, 
 The druid's m^igic misletoe. 
 The holy hermit's passion-flower. 
 
 The offerings on the mystic stone 
 Pensive I laid, in thought profound, 
 Whfn from the cave a deep'niiig groan 
 Issued, and froze me to the ground. 
 
 I hear it still dost thou not hear ? 
 Dofs not thy haunted fancy start? 
 The sound still vibrates through mine ear 
 The horror rushes on my heart. 
 
 Unlike to living sounds it came, 
 Unmix'd, unmelodized with breath ; 
 But, grinding through some scrannel frame, 
 Creak'd from the bony lungs of death, 
 
 I hear it still 'Depart,' it ci-ies: 
 'No tribute bear to shades uiiblest : 
 Know, here a bloody druid lies, 
 Who was not tiurs'd at Nature's breast. 
 
 'Associate he with demons dire, 
 O'er human victims held the knife. 
 And ploas'd to see the babe expire. 
 Smil'd grimly o'er its quivering life. 
 'Behold his crimson-streaming hand 
 Erect 1 his dark, fix'd murd'rous eye ! 
 In the dim cave 1 saw him stand ; 
 And my heart died I fell it die. 
 
 'I S'-o him still -Dost thou not .ep 
 The haggard eyeball's linllow glare? 
 And gl.'ams of wild ferocity 
 Dart through the sable shade of hair'/ 
 
 1 .M.
 
 290 Langhorne. 
 
 What meagre forms behind him moves, 
 With eye that rues th' invading day ; 
 And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves 
 The mind to pale remorse a prey? 
 
 What wretched Hark ! the voice replies, 
 'Boy, bear these idle lioiioiira hence ! 
 Por, here a guilty hermit lies 
 Untrue to nature, virtue, sense. 
 
 'Though nature lent him powers to aid 
 The moral cause, the mutual weal ; 
 Those powei's he sunk in this dim shade, 
 The desperate suicide of zeal. 
 
 'Go, teach the drone of faintly haunts, 
 Whose cell's the sepulchre of time ; 
 Though many a holy liymu he chaunts, 
 His life in one continuous crime. 
 
 'And bear them hence, the plant, the flower; 
 No symbols those of systems vain ! 
 They jiave the duties of their hour ; 
 Some bird, some insect, to sustain.'" 
 
 There is the same spirit of poetry and humanity, recommended 
 
 by the charms of a flowing and elegant versification in Ihe Country 
 
 Justice. This poem opens with a retrospective view of the forlorn 
 
 state of liberty and civil security in England, before the institution 
 
 of justices of the peace in the reign of Edward IIL 
 
 "The social laws from insult to protect. 
 
 To cherish peace, to cultivate respect ; 
 
 The rich from wanton cruelly reslrain. 
 
 To smootli the bed of penury and pain ; 
 
 The hai)less vagrant to his rest restore. 
 
 The miize of fraud, the haunts of tlu^ft explore ; 
 
 The tliouglitless maiden, when subdu'd by art, 
 
 To aid, and bring her rover to her heart ; 
 
 Wild riot's voice wiih dignity to quell. 
 
 Forbid unpeacefid passions to rebel, 
 
 Wrest from revenge the meditated liarm, 
 
 For this fair justice rais'd her sacred arin," 
 
 In the description of an ancient Justice Hall, there are some 
 exquisite strokes of humour and pleasantry, and the moral cha- 
 racter of a country justice, such as that of every magistrate ought 
 to be, is admirably drawn. 
 
 "There Herbert sat The love of liuman kind. 
 Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, 
 In the free eye the featur'd soul display'd,
 
 Langhome. 291 
 
 Honour's strong beam, and Mercj's melting shade : 
 Justice, that in the rigid pntlis of law. 
 Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw. 
 Bend oVr her urn with many a gen'rous fear, 
 Ere his firm seal sliould force one orphan's tear ; 
 Fair Equity, and Reason scoring art, 
 And all the sober virtues of the heart 
 These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail 
 Where .statutes order, or where statutes fail. 
 
 Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan : 
 Firm be youi- justice, but be friends to man. 
 
 He wlioui tlie mighty master of this ball 
 We fondly deem, or farcically call, 
 To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, 
 Ilf)lds but a mansion crush'd before the moth. 
 
 Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, 
 Born but to err, and erring to bewail, 
 Shalt tiiou his faults with eyes severe explore, 
 And give to life one human weakness more ? 
 
 Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; 
 Still maj-k (he strong tem])talion and the need: 
 On prcssiiiL' want, on famine's powerful call, 
 At least more loiiioiit let thy justice fall." 
 
 The gcncnil motives for lenity in the exercise of the justice's 
 office, arc enforced ^vitIl energy and benevolence ; and in his apol- 
 ogy for vagrants, he guards the probable misery of the widowed 
 parent who might have borne one of those wretches, in the richest 
 vein of fancy and pathos. 
 
 " I'or iiim, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life. 
 Has long will) fortune licld unequal strife, 
 Known to no human love, no human care, 
 The fi'ii'udb^ss, liomi'l'-<* olject of (lesi)air ; 
 For the poor vairranl fcol, wiiilt> h" complains, 
 Not IVom sad fii-fdom ^iH\A to .sadil->r chains. 
 Alike if folly or inisfoi luni^ l)i()iiL;lit 
 Those last of woes his evil days have wrought ; 
 Bi'lii've will) social morcy and with me, 
 Folly's niisl'ortuni' in llic lii'^t di'>_M'i'e, 
 
 I'.tIkijis on soni.' inhosp; i .iMc Nliui-e 
 Th- 1 
 
 Who 
 
 Of 111 
 
 \\'x-\v. 
 
 brnt 
 
 I'lii' hit; (iio])s niiii'_dii!L: with the niilli he drew. 
 
 Gave tiie sad [)n saLr<' <it' liis future years, 
 
 The chilli of ini-rry. haptiz'd in teai's." 
 
 m-i 
 
 l.'s- w;-i 
 
 till 1 W ii 
 
 I,.uM 
 
 paii'u! bore ; 
 
 h.T 
 
 1, n 1 ni' 
 
 HH- I.V .^oi 
 
 dm pi 
 
 lospccts led, 
 
 po 
 
 oi- hl.li, 
 
 ,n h' M 
 
 a !.:,! 
 
 V ImmI. 
 
 n ( 
 
 'ana.liai 
 
 1 hillsror 
 
 Mind 
 
 'm's plain, 
 
 1." ' 
 
 1 rl" 
 
 h.at par 
 Wv ImI 
 
 I'lit nioniM 
 
 v. 1,..,-,.N,. 
 
 .M hrl 
 dlSSO 
 
 r xiidicr slain 
 Iv'd in di'W,
 
 292 Lo?i^/ioi'fie. 
 
 And his declaration against that pernicious species of vagrants, 
 
 the gipsies, will be read with peculiar pleasure. 
 
 "The gipsy-race my pity rarely move ; 
 Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love. 
 Not Wilkes, our freedom's holy martyr, more ; 
 Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. 
 For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves 
 The tawny father with liis offspring roves ; 
 When summer suns lead slow the sultry day. 
 In mossy caves, where welling waters play, 
 Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, 
 Witl) this in ragged luxury they lie. 
 Oft at the sun the dusky Elfin's strain 
 The sable eye, then smuggling sleep again 
 Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, 
 For their prophetic mother's mantle call. 
 For other cares that wand'ring mother wait. 
 The mouth, and oft the minister of fate ! 
 From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade. 
 Of future fortune, flies the village maid, 
 Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold ; 
 And rusty half-pence purchase hopes of gold. 
 
 But, ah ! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! 
 She opens not the womb of time, but yours. 
 Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, 
 Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung I 
 The parson's maid sore cause had she to rue 
 The gipsy's tongue ; the parson's duughter too. 
 Long had that anxious daughter sigh'd to know 
 What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, 
 Meant by those glances which at church he stole. 
 Her father noddiTig to the psalm's slow drawl; 
 Long as she sigh'd : at length a prophet came, 
 By many a sure prediction known to fame. 
 To Marian known, and all she told, for true : 
 She knew the future, for the past she knew. " 
 
 His Owen of Carron, is a pathetic tale told with simplicity and 
 
 elegance. There is something pathetically beautiful in the passage 
 
 where Ellen, unconscious of her lover's fate, goes to meet him at 
 
 the accustomed bower, and finds him dead. 
 
 "When all the mountain gales were still. 
 And the wave slept against the shore, 
 And tlie sun sunk beneath the hill. 
 Left his last smile on Lammermore. 
 
 Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way 
 Along the fairy-featur'd vale :
 
 Langhorne. 293 
 
 Bright o'er his wave does Carron play, 
 ATid soon she'll meet her Nithisdale. 
 
 She'll meet him soon for at her sight, 
 Swift ns the mountain deer he sped ; 
 Tho evening shades will sink in night, 
 Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ? 
 
 O ! she will chide thy trifling stay, 
 E'en now the soft reproach she frames: 
 'Can lovers brook such long delay? 
 Lovers that boast of ardent flames ! ' 
 
 He comes not weary with the chase. 
 Soft slumber o"er his eyelids throws 
 Her veil we'll steal one dear embrace. 
 We'll gently steal on his repose. 
 
 This is the bovver we'll softly tread 
 He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale 
 Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled, 
 Thy hpart will far forogo my tale ! 
 
 Ellen is not in princely bower, 
 She'.s not in Moray's splondid train ; 
 Their mistress dear, at midniubt hour, 
 Pier weeping maidens seek in vain. 
 
 Her pillow swells not deep with down ; 
 For her no balms liieir sweets exhale : 
 \\^\- limbs are on the pale I urf thrown, 
 Press'd by her lovely cheek as pale: 
 
 On that fair check, (hat flowing hair, 
 The brown its yellow leaf hath shed. 
 And tho ciiill mountain's early air 
 Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. 
 
 As the soft star of oi-ient day. 
 When clouds involve his rosy light. 
 Darts through the gloom a transient ray, 
 And leaves the world once more to night ; 
 
 Returning life illumes her eye. 
 And slow its languid orb uiifolds 
 What are lliose bluody arrows nigh? 
 Sure, bloody arrows slie lichnlds ! 
 
 What was the form so glnstly pale. 
 'Ihit low beneath the | (.plni- 'I.mv ?--- 
 'Twas some ])iior youtii "Ah \iihisdale !' 
 Slie saitl, and silent sunk away.' 
 
 And her situation, when found by a friendly shepherd, who con- 
 veys her to his cottage, where she returns to life but not to reason, 
 is finely described.
 
 294 Langhorne. 
 
 " 'O hide me in thy humble bower,' 
 Returning late to life, she said ; 
 'I'll bind thy crook with many a flower ; 
 With many a rosy wreath thy head. 
 
 'Good sliepherd, haste to yonder grove, 
 And, if my love asleep is laid. 
 Oh ! wake him not ; but softly move 
 Some pillow to that gentle head. 
 
 'Sure, thou wilt know him, gentle swain, 
 Thou know'st the sun rise o'er the sea 
 But Oh ! no lamb in all thy train 
 Was e'er so mild, so mild as he. 
 
 'His head is on the wood-moss laid ; 
 I did not wake his slumber deep 
 Sweet sings the redbreast o"er the shade 
 Why, gentle lady, would you weep?' 
 As flowers that fade in burning day. 
 At evening find the dew-drop dear, 
 But fiercer feel the noon-tide ray, 
 When soften'd by the nightly tear ; 
 
 Returning in the flowing tear, 
 This lovely flower, more sweet than they. 
 Found her fair soul, and wand'riiig near, 
 The stranger, Reason^ cross'd her way. 
 
 Found her fair soul ^Ah ! so to find 
 Was but more dreadful grief to know ! 
 Ah? sure the privilege of mind 
 Cannot be worth the wish of woe!" 
 
 I will not quote more from Langhorne's poems. They are all 
 distinguished by the same tenderness of sentiment^ luxuriance of 
 description, force of pathos, and harmony of numbers. I have 
 already quoted largely from this poet for two reasons. In the 
 first place the poems are of that character, which require more 
 than a general observation, and to be fully understood and admired 
 require to be particularised. It would be impossible to attempt a 
 comment upon a poet of this kind without quoting variously from 
 his works, which are in almost every case, opposite in subject and 
 character. The other reason arises from a desire to render Lang- 
 horne's works more popular amongst the general readers of poetry: 
 they have never \et obtained that place in the ranks of poetry, 
 which they fully and justly merit.
 
 Goldsmith. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Goldsmith. In reading Goldsmith's poems, we are able at 
 once to analyse the elements of his genius. They exhibit at every 
 point, a keen perfection and enjoyment of the surface beauties of 
 nature ; an intuitive knowledge of the human heart ; and a power 
 of instinct or common sense which supplies the lack of knowledge 
 and learning. Besides this, he possessed a fine healthy tone of 
 moral feeling ; an exquisite taste ; a mild but sincere enthusiasm 
 and a humour at once rich and delicate. Although not a profound, 
 powerful or subtle thinker, there lay in him a vein as exquisitely 
 natural and true, within its limits, as any writer ever possessed. 
 An imagination of the highest order of that order, which con- 
 structs great epics, swelters out deep tragedies, or soars up into 
 lofty odes this Goldsmith had not; but he had a fine fancy which 
 sometimes, as in llie Traveller, and portions of TJie Deserted 
 Village, verges on the imaginative and produces short-lived bursts 
 of grandeur. He had pathos too, of a very tender and touching 
 kind. He opens up at times, a vein of quiet, serious reflection, 
 whicii, if never profound is very pleasing and poetical. Best of all 
 is a childlike simplicity, which, wherever it is found in an author, 
 serves to cover a multitude of sins, but which, in Goldsmith, co- 
 exists with manly sense, acute appreciation of character, and refined 
 native genius. 
 
 His Traveller is a poem in the style of Pope less finely finished 
 than his masterpieces, but warmed by a finer poetic enthusiasm, 
 and abounding in those slight successful touciics, whicli best exhibit 
 the artist's hand. He takes you with him in every step ot hi,-) tour, you 
 "' Run tho great circle, ami arc sliii at lioiiie." 
 And the moral thai he draws iroin the whole, il not strictly cor- 
 rect, is ideally bcautilul. i lie opening ol'tlnspocm is perhaps the 
 most beautiful part. 
 
 " llcinole, uiitriciidcd, uiclauclioiy, sluw, 
 Or by the l.izy Ischelu, or waiidiTing Po ; 
 Or oiiwaid.^whert" the rude Ctirinthinn boor
 
 296 Goldsmith. 
 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaking lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
 My heart untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : 
 Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessiiigs crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire : 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair : 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care : 
 Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone ! 
 
 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; 
 And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 W''hen thus Creation's charms around combine, 
 Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? 
 Say, sliould the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown d; 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; 
 For me your tributary stores combine : 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er : 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ;
 
 Goldsmith. 297 
 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 
 I'leasod with each good tliiit, Heaven to man supplies: 
 
 Yet ol't a sigii prevails, and sorrows tall, 
 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 
 And oft 1 wish, amidst the scene, to find 
 
 Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 
 
 May gather bli-^s, to see my fellows blest. 
 
 But, where to find that happiest spot below, 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 
 The sluiddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Baldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
 The naked negro, panting at the line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 Basks in the glnre, or stems IJie tepid wave, 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 iSucli is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
 His first, l)est country, ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhnps, if countries we compare, 
 And estimate llie blessings which they share. 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 As diffei-ent good, by Art and Nature given. 
 To different nations, makes their blessings even." 
 )(** 
 "Thine, Freedom, thine tlio blessings pictured here. 
 Thine arc those charms that dazzle and endear; 
 Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
 But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy ; 
 That indei)endfnce Britons prize too high. 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie: 
 The self-de|)ondant lordlings stand alone. 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 
 Here, by the bonds of natiu-o feebly held. 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and re])eird ; 
 Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar. 
 Repress'd ambition sirugeles roniul her shore. 
 Till over-wronL;Iit, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or iVenzy lli'e the wheels. 
 
 Nor this tlie worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty. love, and honour fail to sway. 
 Fictitious bonds. tl>(> bonds of wealth aTid law. 
 Still gather >tri-iigth, and foi-ee unwilling awe. 
 Hence all oIie<li.MU'e bows to these alone, 
 Anil talent sinl^s, imd merit weeps iud<nowii. 
 'WW time may eonic, wlien. stripp'd of all her charms. 
 Tile land of sehnlars, and the nui'st^ of arms. 
 Where nolile stenis fratisniit the ]iatriot tlame. 
 Where king's have toifd, and ]iocts wrote for famp. 
 
 J -V,
 
 298 Goldsmith. 
 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 
 And scholars, soldiers, king.s, iinhonour'd die. 
 
 Yet lliiiik not, thus when Freedom's ills I stte, 
 I mean to ilatter kings, or court the great. 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my .soul aspire. 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire I 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, 
 b>till may thy blooms the changeful clime endure I 
 I only would repress I hem to secure ; 
 l-~or just experience tells, in every soil. 
 That those who tliink must govern those that toil ; 
 And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach 
 Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportioned grow. 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 Oh then how blind to all tliat truth requires. 
 \A'ho think it freedom when a part aspires I 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast-approachiTig danger warms; 
 But, when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracling regal power to stretch their own. 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it Irecdom when themselves are free ; 
 Each wanton judge new penal .statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, ai.d ricli men rule the law ; 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
 Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. " 
 
 In the Deserted Village, he chooses a less ambitious but a more 
 interesting field. Like the chased hare, he flies back to his form 
 his dear native village ; and the poem is just a daguerrotype of 
 Lishoy and its inhabitants only so far coloured as memory colours 
 all the past with its own poetic lines. 
 
 "Sweet Auliurn ! loveliest village of the plain. 
 
 Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, 
 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
 
 And parting sunnner's lingering blooms delayed : 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 
 Seats of my youth, when g'^qys spm-t could please, 
 
 How olten have I hutered o'er thy green. 
 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene I 
 
 ITow olten have I paused on every charm, 
 
 The sheltered cot. the cultivated farm.
 
 Goldsmith. 299 
 
 The never-failing brool<. the busy mill, 
 Th decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 
 The imwthorn bush, witii seats l)oneath the shade, 
 For talking age and wliispering lovers made I 
 How often I have hlfssed the coming dny, 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the villasre train, from l.ibour free, 
 Led up their spoi-ts beneatli the spreading tree, 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
 And many a gambol I'rolicked o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and f>'nts of strength went round : 
 And still, MS each repeatf^d pleasure tired 
 Succeeding sports the mirtliful band inspired ; 
 The daTicing pair that simply sought renown 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 
 While secret laugliter tittered round the place ; 
 Tiie bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
 Tlie matron's glancf that would thdse looks reprove. 
 These were thy cliarms. sweet village I sports like these, 
 Witli sweet succession, taught even toil to please; 
 These round tliy bowers their clieoi-ful influence shed; 
 These were thy cliarms -but all thes(> charms are fled." 
 
 Then follows the charming description of the melodies of Evening, 
 
 which as a descriptive passage of its kind is almost imsurpassed. 
 
 'Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There as I passed with careless ste]is and slow, 
 Tlie mingling notes came softened from below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young . 
 The noisy geese tliiit gabbled o'er the pool. 
 The playful children just let loose from school; 
 To watcii-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind : 
 These all in sweet confusion snught the shade, 
 Ami filled (\ieli pausi- the nii:ht iiiL,';ile liinl made. 
 But now the sumuls of populatioii I'ail. 
 No cheerful murmur> tlurln ile iti tli" gale, 
 No busy stej)-. the gr:i>s-t:i- \mi lootWiiy treail, 
 l-'or allilic li'ioomiiig lln-li oi lii',' i.^ lied. 
 All but \on widowrd, solitniv iliiuL;. 
 Tli;!( teoMv 1. ml- I'-Md- i!ie'pi--!'V sprln- : 
 She. w i-rteli. .1 Minh- ;i li.reed i;, \\^u- . for hrend, 
 j'o -^1 np tie l)i-"..k \\\\\\ mantling eri >ses -pread. 
 To |irK le r ui;ilr\ '(a'^.A Ir^in liie th'^rii. 
 'l"o si'^-k her ni;;h!lv -^le-ii. .md \\.'<p till morn 
 She oidv I'I't . t' MJi -.ii^ hirnie -- train, 
 The sad hisl'MJan ol the pensixe plain ! '
 
 300 Goldsmith. 
 
 He has applied the same powers of delicate, minute, and rapid 
 painting in Retaliation, to living men ; and Plutarch, as a char- 
 acter painter, is a dauber to Goldsmith, nor has even Reynolds 
 excelled these little sketches, where the artist not only draws the 
 literal features, but gives at once the inner soul, and the future 
 history of his subjects. The characters of Garrick and Burke have 
 never been equalled. 
 
 "Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, 
 An abridgement of all thiit was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, conf'ess'd without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
 Yet, with talents like these, of an excellent heart. 
 The man had his failings a dupe in his art. 
 Like an ill-judged beauty, his colours he spread, 
 And beplaster'd with rouge ids own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 'Twas only tliat when he was off, lie was acting 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He tiirn'd and he varied full ten times a day ; 
 Though secui-e of our lieai-ts, yet confoundedly sick. 
 If they y^f^x-e not his own by finessing and trick : 
 He cast off his fripnds, as a juintsman his pack ; 
 For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. 
 And the pufTof a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind : 
 If dunces applauded, lie paid them in kind.'" 
 
 * >! * * 
 
 "Here lies honest Eiehard, uhose fate I must sijj;h at, 
 Alas ! that such frolic slioiild now be so quirt I 
 W^hat spirits wci'e his! what wit and wliat whim .' 
 Now bi-eaking a jest, now hreakinrr a limb ! 
 Xow wrangling and gruiv.bling to keep up the ball : 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all. 
 Tn short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 We wish'd him full ten times a i\\\s at old ?\ick, 
 But missing his mirth aiid agreeable vein, 
 As often we wish'd Dick liack again." 
 
 Of his plays I will say little. In the Good Xatured Man the 
 
 comic element predominates, but in S/ie Stoops io Cojiquer, the 
 
 farcical. They have produced more mirth than any other two plays 
 
 out of Shakespeare in the whole drama. But they have no 
 
 poetry, or pretensions to poetry in them. The Epilogue of the
 
 Goldsmith. 301 
 
 latter is excellently written. 
 
 " As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 
 To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure 
 Thus on the stage, our play-niglits still depend, 
 For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, 
 Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
 And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
 Conscious of this, our bard has gotie about. 
 And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. 
 'An Epilogue things can't go on without it ; 
 It could not fail, would you but set about it.' 
 'Young man,' cries one (A burd laid up in clover) 
 Alas ! young man, my writing days are over ; 
 Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; 
 Your brother Doctor there, perhaps may try.' 
 'What, I, dear sir?' the doctor interposes ; 
 'What, plant my thistle sir, among his roses! 
 No no ; I've other contests to maintain ; 
 To-night I heard our trciops at Warwick I^ne, 
 Go, ask your manager. ' ' Who, tne ? your pardon ; 
 Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.' 
 Our author's friends, thus placed at ha|)py distance 
 Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 
 As some unhappy wight, at some new play. 
 At the pit-door stands elbowing away, 
 Wiiile oft with many a smile and many a shrug. 
 He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; 
 His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 
 Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
 He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
 But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
 Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 
 To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ; 
 Blame where you must, be CMudid where you can, 
 And be each critic the CJood-nalured Man. 
 Well, having stoop'd to concpier, with success, 
 And gain'd a husband without aid from dress ; 
 Still as a barmaid, I could wish it too. 
 As I have conquer'd him, to concpu'r you : 
 And, let me say, lor all your resolution. 
 That pretty barmaids have done execution. 
 Our life is all a play, composeil to please, 
 'We have our exits and our entrances." 
 The First Act slios the simjilc cuuntry maid, 
 Harmless and youii;;. of ex erytliing afraid : 
 151ushes wbcn liircd, and with unmeaning action, 
 
 I hofh-S as Iter.,' lO ;7'7V VOll S,l tisfdi/ /Oil . 
 
 Her ,Sec'>nd .Act displays a lovelirr scen(>, 
 Th' unhlushine; barmaid of a country inn. 
 Who whisks about the house, at market cater.",
 
 302 Goldsmith, 
 
 Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. 
 
 Next, the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
 
 The chop-house toast cf ogling connoisseurs. 
 
 On squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
 
 And on the gridiron broils her lover's heart 
 
 And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
 
 Even common-council men forget to eat. 
 
 The Fourth Act shows lier wedded to the Squire, 
 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher. 
 
 Pretends to taste, at operas cries Caro, 
 
 And quits her Nancy Uawson for Clie Faro 
 
 Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride. 
 
 Swims round the room, the Heniel of Cheapside : 
 
 Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 
 
 Till having lost in age the power to kill, 
 
 She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 
 
 Such, through our lives, th' eventful history 
 
 The Fifth and Last Act still remains for me. 
 
 The barmaid now for your protection prays, 
 
 Turns female barrister, and pleads for boys. " 
 
 Goldsmith's Hermit, and his other small pieces are very dew- 
 drops of loveliness and simplicity "from the womb of the morning." 
 The former will ever be read with delight. 
 
 " 'Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 And guide my lonely way. 
 To where yon taper clieers the vale 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 'For here forlorn and lost I tread 
 
 With fainting steps and slo'.v ; 
 W^here wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 
 Seem lengthening as I go, 
 
 'Forbear my son,' the Hermit cries, 
 
 'To tempt the dangerous gloom : 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 Here, to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 'Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 
 Whatever my cpU bestows : 
 My rushy couch and fmigal fare. 
 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 'No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To shiughler I condenni ; 
 Taught by that power that jMties me, 
 
 I learn to \n\.y them :
 
 Goldsmith. 303 
 
 'But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A puiltloss feast I l)ring, 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring, 
 
 'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-horn cares are wrong ; 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little lonij;.' 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 Mis gentle accents fell ; 
 The modest stranger lowly bends. 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far, in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 A refuge to the neighluiuring poor 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Required a master's care ; 
 The wicket opening with a latch, 
 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The Hermit trimm'd his little fire 
 
 And chocr'd his pensive guest. 
 
 And spread his vegetable store. 
 And gaily press'd and smiled, 
 
 And.skiird in Icgcncbiry lore. 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 The cricket chirru])s in the hearth : 
 
 The crackling fagot flies. 
 
 15ut notliing could a charm imiiart, 
 To soothe tlic stranger's woe ; 
 
 For grief was heavy at liis heart. 
 Anil tears began to tlow. 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied. 
 With answeriiii: care upprest : 
 
 And, 'Whence un!iap]i\- \' '.ith.' he cried, 
 'The sorrows of tli}- In cast ?' 
 
 'l''i(ini belter habilalioiis spuni'd 
 
 Reluetaiit (lo^i tlimi row- '^ 
 Ov giieve foi" frieinKhip niii-eturn'd. 
 
 ( )r unreganU'i] Imvc ? 
 
 'Alas the Jmvs that foitune brings 
 Kvi:. trifling, and decay;
 
 304 Goldsmith. 
 
 And those who prize the paltry tilings, 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 'And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm tliat lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 
 And leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 'And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modeiTi fair one's jest ; 
 On earth unseen, or only found, 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 'For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And spurn the sex,' he said : 
 But, while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd: 
 
 Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view, 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 And 'Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wretch forlorn' she cried ; 
 'Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude. 
 
 Where heaven and you reside. 
 
 'But let a maid thy pity share, 
 Whom love has taught to stray ; 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 'My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy hjrd was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 
 
 lie had but only me. 
 
 'To win me from his tender arms 
 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 
 And felt or feigned a flame. 
 
 'Each hour a mercenary crowd^ 
 
 With richest proffers strove; 
 Among the rest, young Edwin bow'd, 
 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 In humblest, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth nor power liad he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had. 
 
 But these were all to me.
 
 Goldsmith. ' 305 
 
 'And when, beside me in the dale 
 
 He carolled lays of love : 
 His hreaih lent fragrance to the gale, 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 'The blossom of opening to the day, 
 
 The dew of heaven refined, 
 Could nought of purity disjjiay 
 
 To emulate his mind, 
 
 'The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
 
 With charms in constant shines: 
 Their charms were his ; but woe to me, 
 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 'For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touched my heart, 
 
 I triumphed in his pain, 
 
 'Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 'l)Ut mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought. 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 'And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 ' Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 And so for him will I.' 
 
 'Forbid it, Heaven ! ' the Hermit cried, 
 
 And clasp'd her to his breast ; 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide 
 
 "Twas Edwin's self that prest ! 
 
 'Turn, Angelina ever dear 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here ; 
 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 'Thus let me hold tliee to my heart. 
 
 And every care resign ; 
 And shall we never, never Jiart, 
 
 My life my uU lliat's mine? 
 'No never; from this lK>ur to part. 
 
 We'll live and love so true; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 
 Shall break tliy I'dwin's too."' 
 
 Undoubtedly, Cioldsmith's Tra-.u-Iler and Descried Villai^e, are 
 two of the finest smaller pocnts, in the poetry of the world. 
 
 I O.
 
 306 Collins 
 
 CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 COIJ.INS. 
 
 COLIJNS. '' Genius, " it is said by a writer, " is not only a mys- 
 tery in itself, but equally mysterious in the manner in which it 
 distributes its favours and scatters its fire. Truly may it be 
 compared to that 'wind which bloweth where it listeth.' Now it 
 rests on the coroncted brow of a peer ; and now it finds its votary 
 at the plough. Now its wisdom dwells with prudence in the count- 
 ing-house or bank; and now it serves to gild, without glorifying, 
 the excesses and the haunts of vulgar debauchery and riot. Now 
 it stands with a holy Herbert in the pulpit ; and now recoils from 
 men, and mouths high heaven, with a Byron plunging into his 
 'Wilderness of Sin.' Now it sits serene in the blind eyes of a 
 Milton, alone in his obscure chamber, and meditating times to 
 come ; and now it pines away in the dull madness of a Collins, or 
 serves to exasperate his misery, as, in a wilder mood he runs, 
 howling like a dog, through the aisles of Chichester Cathedral. 
 Verily it is a fearful gift ; and if all men say, ' we are fearfully and 
 wonderfully made,' men of genius may say it with a far deeper 
 emphasis, and often with a more melancholy meaning.''* 
 
 This beautiful passage very fitly precedes a sketch of Collins' 
 life by the same writer, There is something very pitiful in this 
 poet's career; projecting, but never carrying into execution; perhaps 
 through poverty, or for want of resolution and energy of character. 
 Like Coleridge, he spent his life in elaborating gigantic prospectuses 
 to works whicli were never written ; piling up portals to palaces 
 that were never built. Collins, instead of working in the studies of 
 London only dreamed along its streets. He was eminently de- 
 lighted with those flights of imagination which pass the bounds of 
 nature ; he loved fairies, genii, giants, and monsters, he delighted 
 to rove through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the 
 magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the Elysian waterfalls. 
 "Wliile men saw him gazing, with lack-lustre eye at the streets and 
 parks, river and St. Pauls." says another writer, ''his mind was in 
 
 Ke\\ Cen, Cliifillan.
 
 Collins. 307 
 
 reality straying through cities, where all the inhabitants were mag- 
 ically stifl'ened into stone; chasing ghouls through the halls of Eblis; 
 projecting variation in Aladdin's palace, swimming the Euphrates, 
 or looking downj with Mirza from the high hills of Bagdad ; upon 
 the vast tide rolling on towards the cloud-girt ocean of Eternity." 
 He was a dreamer in a city and the dreams of the desert are not 
 so deep or so wonderful as those which insulate the imaginative in 
 the centre of crushing crowds. 
 
 But dreams cannot support the body, however gorgeous and 
 poetical, and here it is that we sympathise with Collins; for he soon 
 found that dreaming was a vague, a poor, and a very miserable 
 business ; and that in the strong line of Byron, 
 
 "Of sue!) materials wretclied men are made." 
 
 We are told that his immortal Odes, after many vain endeavours 
 to introduce them to the public, nere wholly unsuccessful, and that 
 the unfortunate author in proud humility and indigent despair, 
 burnt the unsold copies with his own hands. The blaze which 
 thus consumed these Odes, seems to us as significant as it was 
 strange and melancholy ; and it casts a light upon many things. 
 We see by its glare the "keen eyes, and brown complexion" of 
 the poet, suffused with pale and silent rage, and that "frown of 
 intense and habitual thought," which sat upon his brow, darkened 
 into a deeper shade, as his hot and tremulous hands, arc hastily 
 dropping into the tire the memorials of early genius and baftled 
 ambition; a proud tear standing in his eye, and a proud sigh 
 escaping his lips, as he says, ''If they are only worthy of the 
 reception they have met with, they shall not, at least, live to 
 disgrace my memory. '' 
 
 This poet's genius was of that highly imaginative order, whicii 
 deals more with abstractions than with liunian forms or ffclini^s. 
 Ho was a painter of shadows antl ^i_;antic ghosts. Aiul in this 
 no one has excelled him. He tluslu's the ])alL' cheeks of .Abstract 
 Ide.'is. He "breathes on their skeleton ^h.ipes, and m.ikes them 
 live. All the objects he dcscriln's seem to be ^een (// a'/^V// ; and 
 yet in general llic\- .ne shown in a clear and rich chiaroscuro, ab
 
 308 Collins. 
 
 distinctly, but in a mellower tone than though it were day." Take 
 
 for instance his great group of the "Passions." 
 
 "First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
 Amid the ehor.ls bewider'd laid, 
 And back recoil'd, he knew not why. 
 
 Even at the sound hiniseH' liad made, 
 i^ext Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire, 
 
 In lightnings own'd his secret stings : 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 
 And swept with hurried liand the strings. 
 With wofui measures wan Despair 
 
 Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd ; 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
 
 'Twas sad by flits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 But thou, O Ho])e, with eyes so fair, 
 What was thy delightful measure? 
 Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail I 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong, 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
 She call'd on Echo still thi-oiigh all the song. 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, 
 And Hope enchanted sniil'd, and wav'd her golden liair. 
 And longer had she sung, but with a I'rcjwn, 
 Eevenge impatient rose : 
 He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down. 
 And, with a withering look, 
 The war-denomicing ti-uuipet took, 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 
 And ever and aruiii lie lieat 
 The doubling di-uni with furious heat ; 
 And though sonielimes, each dreary ))anse between, 
 -Dejected I'ity at his side. 
 Her soul subduing voice aiiplied. 
 Yet still he kejit his wild unaltcrVl mien. 
 While each strain'd ball of sight secmVl bursting from his head. 
 Thy numl^ers. Jealousy, to nought \\ei'(^ fix'd ; 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful .-tale. 
 Of differing tlieniPS th" veering soug w.-s mix'd.' 
 
 And now it courted f/ove, now i-aving call'd on Hate. 
 Witli pycs U]")raised, as oue inspii'ed. 
 Pale Mplaucholy sat retired : 
 And froni her wild requcster'd >c;il. 
 In notes l)y distance m-ide nnirf s ' t. 
 Pour'd Ihi-ougli the nipjl'iw horn h, r iiensivo soul: 
 Aud dashing s.tit fi-dui rucks around. 
 Bubbling runnels join'd the sound : 
 Through glades and gb>nuis the mingled measure stole.
 
 Collins. 309 
 
 Or, o'er some hnunted stream, with fond delay. 
 Round a holy calm diffusing. 
 Love of peace, and lonely musing. 
 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 But how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. 
 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
 
 Her buskins gemin'd with morning dew, 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. 
 
 The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! 
 
 The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen. 
 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
 Brown Exercise rejoic'd.to hear. 
 
 And S])ort leapt up and seiz'd his beechen spear. 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 He, with viny crown advancing, 
 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
 Wliose sweet entriincmg voice he loved the best ; 
 
 They would have tliought, who heard the strain. 
 
 They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids. 
 
 Amid the festal sounding shades. 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 
 Wliile, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
 
 Love framed with Mirth o gay fantastic round : 
 
 Loose were lier tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
 
 And he, amidst his frolic play, 
 As if he would the charming air repay. 
 Shook tiiousand odours from his dewy wings." 
 
 Aiid yet, although he has so exquisitely described the Passions, 
 the great want of his poetry is passion. His figures have in then: 
 the breath of genius, but little human interest. He excels, how- 
 ever, in lyrics, and the lyrical poet has little inclination to study 
 the human heart, or to look al^road upon universality. He is wrapt 
 in a dream of his own, and chained to his lyre. As a beautiful 
 example of this, read the spirit and glowing dialogues of the 
 Gentle SJicplwrd. His figures are less numerous than they are 
 intense; he deals little in similes, but much in burning metaphor. 
 His thought is not often subtle, l)ut it is never shallow or common- 
 place. His versification has in parts, a fine music, and more melo- 
 dious cadence than any verse between Milton and Coleridge. 
 
 The three best compositions of Collins are the Ode lo llvciiiiii^, 
 distinguished for its delicate ])ersonitication and beautiful selection
 
 310 Collins. 
 
 of poetical images : his Ode to Liberty, the most ambitious and 
 perhaps the grandest of his strains "dark, rugged, bold and 
 soaring as the wing of the Eagle;" and his Ode on the Superstitions 
 0/ Seotlaud- less poetical but more complete and interesting than 
 any of his poems. For an example take the following, his Ode to 
 Liberty : 
 
 " Who shall wake the Spartan fife, 
 
 And call in solemn sounds to life, 
 The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, 
 
 Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, 
 At once the breath of fear, and virtue shedding. 
 
 Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view? 
 
 What new Alcoeus, fancy-blest, 
 
 Shall sing tlie sword in myrtles drest, 
 At Wisdom's shrine awhile ils flame concealing, 
 
 (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd ? ) 
 
 Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, 
 
 It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound I 
 Goddess, in that feeling hour, 
 
 When most its sounds would court thy ears, 
 Let not my shell's misguided power, 
 
 E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. 
 No Freedom, no, I will not tell, 
 How Eome, before thy weeping face. 
 With heaviest sound, a giant statue, fell, 
 Push'd by a wild and artless race 
 From off its wide ambitious base, 
 When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, 
 
 And all the blended work of strength and grace, 
 
 With many a rude repeated stroke. 
 And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fi-agments broke.'' 
 
 There are many other very beautiful specimens of Collins' poetry, 
 
 the choicest of which are perhaps the two following. The first, the 
 
 Dirge in Cyinbelinc, is a tender and pathetic strain, 
 
 "To fair Fidele's grassy tomb. 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom. 
 And rifle all the breathing Spring. 
 
 No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, 
 But shepherd lads assemble here. 
 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 No withcr'd witcli shall here be seen. 
 
 No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 
 The female fays shall haunt tlie green, 
 
 And dress tliy grave with pearly dew !
 
 Cflllins. , 311 
 
 The redbreast oft at evening hours 
 
 Shall kindly lend its little aid, 
 With hoary moss and gather'd flowers, 
 
 To dock the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howling winds and beating rain, 
 
 In tempest sliake the sylvan cell ; 
 Or 'midst the chase on every plain. 
 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 
 Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
 
 For thoe the tear be duly shed ; 
 I'elov'd till life can charm no more, 
 
 And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead." 
 
 The other, the Ode to Pity is delicate both in imagery and per- 
 sonification, and as interesting as any of his lyrical pieces. 
 
 "O Thou, the friend of man assign'd, 
 With balmy hands his wounds to bind, 
 
 And cliarm his frantic woe : 
 When first ])i8tress with dagger keen, 
 Broke f(jrth to waste his destin'd scene, 
 
 His wild unsatcd foe ! 
 
 Ily Pclla's Bard, a magic name. 
 
 By all the griefs his thought could I'ranip, 
 
 Receive my humble rile : 
 l.oiig, Pity, let the nations view 
 Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue. 
 
 And eyes of dewy light ! 
 
 But wherefore need \ wander wide 
 To old llissus' distant side, 
 
 Descried stream, ami mule? 
 Wild Arun too has heard thy strains. 
 And echo 'midst my native j)lains, 
 
 Been sooth'd by Pity's lute. 
 
 There first the wren thy myrtles shed. 
 On gentlest Olway's infinl head, 
 
 To him thy cell was shown ; 
 And while he sung the female heart. 
 With Youth's sofi notes uiis])iiird hy Art. 
 
 Thy turtles mix'd their own. 
 
 Come, Pity, come, bv r^'.ney's aid. 
 K\'n niiw my t liou^rlits, i-cliMitiug n\aid, 
 
 Thy temple's ])ri(l<' (b'sign ; 
 Its southiM-n lite, its trulli ecjni])Icte 
 Shall laisi' a wild eiiiliu-iM--l hi';ii, 
 
 1 II all \\ li'i view t!io slirin(\ 
 
 JliiT.' Picture's t(,il ^hill wi^ll relate, 
 How eli:iuee, or hard imolving f;ite. 
 ( )'er UKU'lal bliss prevail ;
 
 312 Gray. 
 
 The buskin'd muse shall near her stand, 
 And sighing prompt her tendei- liaiid, 
 With <'ach disastrous tale. 
 
 Tiieri^ let nie oft, retir'd by day, 
 In dreams of passion melt away, 
 
 AUow'd with thee to dwell : 
 There waste the moiirnful lamp of night, 
 Till, Virgin, thou again delight 
 
 To hear a British shell ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 GRAY, 
 
 Gray. Gray was perhaps oneof the most learned men in Europe. 
 There is seen in his works an equal acquaintance with both the 
 elegant and profound parts of science. We learn moreover that he 
 knew every branch of history, both natural and civil ; that he had 
 read all the original historians of England, France, and Italy; and 
 was a great antiquarian ; that criticism, metaphysics, morals and 
 politics, made a principal part of his study, and travels of all kinds 
 were his favorite amusements ; and that he had a fine taste in 
 painting, prints, architecture and gardening.* 
 
 Speaking of his poems, it may be said, that they all bear the 
 stamp of true poetry. The most famous, are the T^/t^^'y, his Ode 
 oil the Passions, The Progress of Poesy, and The Bard, Tliey 
 are all more remarkable for art and elaboration, than for passion 
 or genius. The Elegy has been perhaps the most popular poem 
 in the English language. General Wolfe, when advancing to the 
 brilliant action in which he fell, is said to have declared that he 
 would rather have been the author of the Elegy than have the 
 honour of taking Quebec. There is a 'melancholy grace,' to use 
 his own expression, in the Elegy, which seems to give it greater 
 excellence, and which no doubt resulted from its having been 
 written shortly after the death of his friend Mr. West, upon whom 
 also the following beautiful Sonnet was written. 
 
 ' Mason's 'Life of Gray.'
 
 Gray. 313 
 
 "In vain to me the smiling morning shine, 
 
 And reddening Piioebus lifts his golden fire : 
 The bii-ds in vain their amorous descant join ; 
 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire : 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine; 
 
 A different object do these eyes require: 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; 
 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
 Yet morning smiles tlie busy race to cheer, 
 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men : 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear: 
 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain : 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 
 
 And weep the more, because I weep in vain." 
 
 There seems to be a kind of presentiment in this pathetic piece, 
 which causes it to be read with redoubled pleasure. There is the 
 same shade of melancholy also in the Ode on a Distant Prospect of 
 Eton College, and the Ode to Adversity. They both merit quoting 
 as two of the finest specimens of the lyric poetry of this country. 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE, 
 
 Yc distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the watery glade, 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights the' expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding \v;iy : 
 Ah, liapjiy hills 1 ah pleasing shade ! 
 
 All (iflds bi'lov'd in vain 
 Where once my cureless childhood stray'd. 
 
 A stranger yet to ])ain I 
 I feel the gales that iioni ye blow 
 A momentary IiUns bestow, 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 My weary soul they seem Id soothe, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth. 
 To bi-oalhea second Spring. 
 Say, i''ather Thames (for thon hast seen 
 
 Full many a spi-iubtly race 
 Disporting on thv iiiir^ent L;i'een, 
 
 The paths ol'l'leasure trace). 
 Who ioremost now delight to cleave. 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthral? 
 
 I P.
 
 314 Gray. 
 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 
 Or urge tlie flying ball? 
 Whilst some, on earnest business bent, 
 
 Their murmuring labours ply 
 'Graiiist graver hours, that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty : 
 Some bold adventures disdain 
 The limits of their little i-eign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 They hear a voice in every wiad, 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, 
 
 Less ])leasiiig when possess'd. 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 Theirs buxom Heallh, of rosy hue. 
 Wild Wit, invention ever new, 
 
 And lively cheer, of vigour born ; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 
 
 That fly the' ai^proach of morn. 
 Alas ! regaidloss of their doom, 
 
 The little victims play ; 
 No sense have they of ills to come. 
 
 No care beyond to-day : 
 Yet see, how all around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate. 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah, shew them where in ambush stand, 
 To seize tlieir prey the murderous band I 
 
 Ah ! tell them, they are men. 
 These shall the fury Passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 Disdainful Anger, Palliii Feir, 
 
 And Shame that skulks behind ; 
 Of pining Love shall waste their youth. 
 Or Jealousy, witii rankling tooth. 
 
 That inly gnaws lh(> secret lieart; 
 Aiul Envy wan, and faded Care. 
 Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, 
 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart, 
 Ambition (his shall temjit 1(5 rise, 
 
 Tlien hiu-1 the wretch from big!). 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 
 
 And bitter Infamy. 
 The stings of Fals'-hood those shall try 
 And hai-cl Unkindness' altcr'd eye, 
 That mocks the tear it forc'd to (low
 
 Gray. 315 
 
 And keen Eemorse, with blood defiled, 
 And moody Madness laughing wild 
 
 Amid severest woe. 
 Lo ! in the valley of years beneath, 
 
 A grisly troop are seen, 
 The painful family of J)eath, 
 
 More hideous than their queen : 
 This racks tlio joints, tliis prefss the veins 
 That every labouring sinew strains : 
 
 Tliose in the deeper vitals rage. 
 Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
 
 And slow consuming Age. 
 To each his sufferings all are men, 
 
 Condemn'd alike to f;roan ; 
 The tender for another's pain. 
 
 The' unreeling ibr his own. 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate? 
 Since sorrow never comes too lat-o, 
 
 And li;\ppine.-s too swittjy flies? 
 Thought would destroy their paradise, 
 No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. " 
 
 TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 'Daughter of Jove, relcnJless power. 
 
 Though tiuncr of tiic human breast, 
 Whose iron scoLjrge and torturing hour 
 
 The bud affright, alllict tiie best! 
 Bound in thj' adamantine chain, 
 The proud are taught to tasks of pain. 
 Ami purple tyraiitd vainly groan 
 With pangs nnfclt before, unpitied and alone. 
 
 When first thy sire to send on earth 
 
 Virtue, his darling child, d(>siga'd. 
 To thee he gave tlio heavonly birtli, 
 
 And bade to form lier infant mind. 
 Stern rugged nurse ! tliy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore : 
 ^\'ilat sorrow was, thou bad st her know, 
 And from her own siie IcMrn'd to melt as others' woe, 
 Scared at thy frown terrific. Ily 
 
 Sclf-pleasiug Folly's iille brood. 
 Wild Laiigliter. Xois.', and thougluless Joy, 
 
 And li'MVo us It'i^ur.- tn be ;;(>ii(|. 
 T-ight they dispcrsi'. ami uiiii them go 
 The suuuuer friend, the tlattcring foe ; 
 By vain Prosperity riceivfd. 
 To her they vow tlieir truth, and are again believed.
 
 316 Gray. 
 
 Wisdom in sable garb array'd 
 Immersed in rapturous thought profound, 
 
 And Melancholy, silent maid, 
 
 With leaden eye that loTes the ground. 
 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
 
 Warm Chai-ity, the general friend, 
 
 Wilh Justice, to herself severe, 
 And Pity, drojiping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 
 
 Oh ! gently on thy suppliant's head, 
 
 Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! 
 
 Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
 Not circled Tvith the vengeful band, 
 
 (As by the impious thou art seen) ; 
 
 With thundering voice, and threatening mien, 
 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 
 
 The form benign, oh goddess, wear. 
 
 Thy milder influence impart, 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 
 U'o soi'ten, not to wound my heart. 
 The generous spark extinct revive. 
 Teach me to love, and to forgive, 
 Exact my own defects to scan, 
 What othei'S are to feel, and know myself a Man." 
 
 The Ode on the Prooress of Poesy is very highly finished, and 
 
 describes the power and influence of poetry, as well as its progress, 
 
 with all the accuracy of metaphysical precision. The opening is 
 
 exquisitely conceived. 
 
 " Awake, yEolian lyre, awake, 
 And give to rapture all thy trembling strings, 
 From Helicon's harmonies springs 
 
 A thousand rills their mazy progress lake 
 The laughing flowers, that round them blow. 
 Drink life and fragrance as tliey flow, 
 Now the rich stream of music winds along. 
 Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. 
 Through verdant vjiles, and Cer< s' golden reign ; 
 Now rolling down the steep amain. 
 Headlong, inipeluous, see it pinn- : 
 The i-ocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar." 
 
 And the third stanza is a master-piece of rhythin; it charms 
 
 the car by its well-varied cadence, as rnuch as the imagery which 
 
 it contains ravishes the fancy. 
 
 " '.rhcc (lie \oici\ the dance, obc}'. 
 Temper'd to thy \iarble(l lay.
 
 Gray. 317 
 
 O'er Idalia's velvet green 
 
 The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
 
 On Cytherea's day 
 
 With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
 
 Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
 
 Now pursuing, now retreating, 
 
 Now in circling troops they meet : 
 To brisk not in cadence beating, 
 
 Glance their many twinkling feet. 
 Slow malting strains their Queen's approach declare: 
 
 Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. 
 With arms sublime, that float upon the air, 
 
 In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
 O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move 
 
 The bloom of young Desire aud purple light of Love." 
 
 The lines which follow the words 
 
 " Glance their many twinkling feet. " 
 are sweetly introduced by the short and unequal measures which 
 precede them. What is gone before dwells upon the ear, and in- 
 sensibly harmonises with the present line. 
 
 Another splendid specimen of Gray's poems, are those fine imita- 
 tions of Norse and Welsh poetry, The descent of Odin, &-', They 
 are executed with fire and at the same time with judgment, while 
 he has kept up through them all the wild romantic spirit of his 
 originals. The two best are The descent of Odin, and The triumph 
 of Owen. 
 
 " Owen's praise demands my song, 
 Owen swift, aud Owen strong; 
 Fairest flower of Rhodcric's stem. 
 Gwyiieth's shii'ld, aud Britain's gem, 
 lie nor heaps his brooded stores 
 Nor on all profusely pours ; 
 Lord of every regal art, 
 Lil)e-a! hand and ojicii heiirt. 
 
 Big with hosts of mighty name, 
 Squadrons three against him came ; 
 This the force of luren hiding. 
 Side by side as piou<lly riding. 
 On her shadow lon^f and gay 
 Lockliii ploufihs the walei-y way. 
 There the Norman sails afar 
 Cateh the winds and join the wai- 
 Black and huge along they sweep, 
 Burdens of the angry dc ep; 
 Dauntless on his native sands
 
 318 Gray. 
 
 The dragon son of Mona stands ; 
 In glittering arms and glory dress'd, 
 High he rears his ruby crest. 
 There the thundering strokes begin, 
 There the press, and there the din ; 
 Talymalfra's rocky shore 
 Echoing to the battle's roar. 
 Check'd by the torrent tide of blood, 
 Backward Meinai rolls his flood ; 
 While, heap'd his master's feet around. 
 Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground. 
 Where his glowing eyeballs turn, 
 Thousand banners round him burn, 
 Where he points bis purple spear. 
 Hasty, hasty rout is there. 
 Marking with indignant eye 
 Fear to stop, and shame to fly. 
 There confusion, terrors child, 
 Conflict fierce, and ruin wild, 
 ^gony, that pants for breath. 
 Despair and hcnoui-able death," 
 
 "Uprose the king of men with speed. 
 And saddled straight bis coal black steed: 
 Down the yawning steep he rode. 
 That leads to Hohi's dread abode. 
 Him the dog of darkness spied ; 
 His shaggy throat he open'd wide. 
 While from his jaws, with carnage filled, 
 Foam and human gore distill'd: 
 Hoarse he bays with hideous din, 
 Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin ; 
 And long pursues, with fruitless yell, 
 The father of the powerful spell. 
 Onward still his way he takes 
 (The groaning earth beneath him shakes). 
 Till full before his fearless eyes 
 The ]5ortals nine of hell arise. 
 
 Right against the eastern gate. 
 By the moss-grown pile lie sate; 
 Where long of yore to sleep was laid 
 The dust of the prophetic maid. 
 Facing to the northern clime, 
 Thrice he traced the R\niic rhyme ; 
 Thrice pronounced, in accents dread, 
 The thrilling verse that wakes the dead : 
 Till from out the hollow ground 
 Slowly breathe sullen sound.'
 
 Gray. 319 
 
 Prophetess. What call unknown, what charms presume 
 
 To break the c[uiet of the tomb? 
 
 Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, 
 
 And draj,'s me from the roalms of night? 
 
 Long on these mould'ring bones have beat 
 
 The winter's snow, the summers heat, 
 
 The drencliing dews, and driving rain ! 
 
 Let me, let me sleep again. 
 
 Who is he, witli voice unl)lest. 
 
 That calls jne from the Ijed of rest? 
 Odin. A traveller, to thee unlcnown, 
 
 Is he that calls, a warrior's son^ 
 
 Thou the deeds of liglit shall know ; 
 
 Tell me what is don'i below, 
 
 For whom yon glittering board is spread, 
 
 Drcsl for whom yon golden bed ? 
 Prophetess. Mantling in the goblet sec 
 
 The pure bev'rage of the bee : 
 
 O'er it hangs the shield of gold ; 
 
 'Tis the drink of ISaldcr bold: 
 
 Balder's head to death is givn. 
 
 Pain can reach the Sons of Ileav'n ! 
 
 Unwilling I my lips unclose : 
 
 Leave me, leave me to repose. 
 Odin, Once again my call ol)ey, 
 
 Prophetess, arise, and say, 
 
 What dangers Odin's Child await. 
 
 Who the Author of his flite. 
 Prophetess. In Iloder's hand the Hero's doom ; 
 
 Brother sends him to the tomb, 
 
 Now my weary li[)s I close ; 
 
 Leave mc, leave me to repose. 
 Odin. Prophetess, my spell obey, 
 
 Once again arise, and say 
 
 Who the' Avenger of his guilt 
 
 Py whom shall Iloder's hlood lie spilt? 
 Prophetess. in the caverns of tiic west, 
 
 Py Odin's li<'rcc cinlirace eoni])rcst, 
 
 A wond'rous liny Siliail Kinda liear, 
 
 \\"Ik) ne't-r sliall comh his raven-hair, 
 
 IS'or wash his vis;iL;o in tlic si ream. 
 
 Nor sec the sun's depintiiig l>eam. 
 
 Till he (in llo ler'.s coj-pM- shall smile 
 
 I'laniiug on liie luiieral pile. 
 
 IS'ow my wi'aiy lips I clnsc : 
 
 r.eavc nie, lea\c me to repose. 
 (?<////. Vet awhile my e.dl obey. 
 
 Prophetess, awake, and say. 
 
 \Vliat \'irt^ins these, in speechless woe, 
 
 That bend to earth their solenm brow,
 
 320 Cowper. 
 
 That their flaxen tresses tear, 
 And snowy veils tliat float in air? 
 Tell me whence their sorrows rose ; 
 Then I leave thee to repose. 
 
 Prophetess. ITa ! no traveller art thou, 
 King of men, I know thee now 
 Mightiest of a mighty line 
 
 Odin. No bodin maid of skill divine 
 
 Art thou, nor ijrorhetess of good ; 
 But mother of the giant brood ! 
 
 Prophetess. Hie the hence, and boast at home, 
 That never shall inquirer come 
 To break my iron sleep again, 
 Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain 
 Never, till substantial night 
 Has reasumed her ancient right ; 
 Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, 
 Sinks the fabric of the world." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Cowper. There is perhaps no poet more securely fixed in the 
 affections of his countrymen than Cowper. Many people who 
 pride themselves on their indifference to poetry in general, and 
 consider all time thus spent is time lost, make an exception in his 
 case, and take a pleasure in reading his verse, as genuine as it is 
 rare. Yet Cowper's poems are not of that description which affect 
 or call for our sympathies, although we cannot hold back our ad- 
 miration and respect for his works, full, as they are, of pure and 
 grave religious sentiment. It is this for which Cowper's works 
 have so considerable a popularity. Whatever English society in 
 itself may be, it has a decided bias in favour of religious literature, 
 and heartily admires those authors who are serious, moral, or pious, 
 or who even write as if they were. It does not demand or desire 
 mystics or transcendalists, like France or Germany, but writers of 
 clear biblical views, strong practical convictions, and hearty in their
 
 Cowper. 321 
 
 hatred of social and ecclesiastical abuses. Such persons, if they 
 happen to possess talent or genius (often indeed when they have 
 neither) exercise a potent influence upon the middle classes of 
 Englishmen. In this class, Cowper stands pre-eminent. None 
 has written more forcibly or pungently against the foibles, faults 
 and vices of his countrymen. He denounces the slave trade, gin- 
 drinking, fox-hunting, balls, theatres, card-playing, churcli-hireling, 
 the luxurious habits of the rich, the rude vices of the poor, the 
 profligacy of cities, the swagger, the swearing, and the drunkenness 
 of soldiers quite in the style of an eloquent platform-lecturer; and 
 one feels as if the proper conclusions to his poetic perorations on 
 these topics was "loud applause," The religious world found in 
 Cowper a powerful ally, and prized him accordingly. He had just 
 as much poetry, wit, humour and sentiment as fitted him to illus- 
 trate without veiling in doubtful haze the truths of Christianity. 
 There is nothing fantastic, outre, or heretical about him ; all is as 
 orthodox as a sermon. Before his day England had produced no 
 great poet whose piety was of a popular l<ind, for Milton the only 
 seeming instance to the contrary was too grandly imaginative, 
 too richly adorned with classic learning, and too scanty in his di- 
 dactic precepts, to be sincerely appreciated by the mass. Cowper 
 occupied a far lower level, but he was for that reason much nearer 
 to his readers, who could unc'crstand him as easily as they did their 
 clergymen on Sundays. Another element of attractiveness in Cow- 
 per, is the intensely Eiii^lisli character of his genius. It was no mere 
 parade of patriotic feeling that made him write the following strain. 
 
 "Englaiul, with .ill tliy faults, I love tliec still 
 My country I and, while yet a nook is left 
 Where luiglisli niiiuls and manners may he foiuid, 
 Shall he constrain'ci to love thee. 'J'lic)iij;h thy clime 
 Be liekl-e, ami thy year, most part dcform'd 
 With dripping rains, or uithi-i'd hy a frost, 
 I Would not exchange thy sullen skii.s, 
 And liclds without a lloui-i-, fur warmer !' ranee 
 With all lier vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, .'nul her myrtle bowers. 
 To shake thy senate, and from licigiits svdilime 
 Of p<itriol eUxiuence to tlasb ilown lire 
 
 I Q
 
 322 Cowper. 
 
 Upon thy foes, was never meant my task ; 
 But I feel can thy fortunes, and partake 
 Thy joys and soiTows, with as true a heart 
 Ki any thunderer there. " 
 
 There have been many English poets who have entertained a 
 deeper, passionate, and more tender sentiment for their native land 
 than Cowper was capable of; but there is naturally something so 
 broadly humane in the genius of poetry, that even where the 
 themes are purely local, a cosmopolitan spirit breathes out, that 
 makes the whole world kin, as in the songs of Robert Burns. 
 Cowper, however, has nothing of this ; he is exclusively national. 
 Except in occasional political and philanthropical allusions, he 
 does not seem conscious that there is a world of living beings, with 
 other ideas and aims than his, beyond the English Channel. One 
 is keenly conscious of a certain insularity of tone in his writings, 
 and can readily comprehend w'hy he is not, and never will be, 
 much cared for on the Continent. Yet this very insularity is one 
 of his charms for English readers, and in those moods when we 
 are weary of speculation and subtle fancies, and seek for some- 
 thing more simple and clear, there are few finer pleasures than 
 listening to the quiet stream-like murmur of his muse as it passes 
 from object to object and from scene to scene. Tiie Task reveals 
 unmistakably the entire nature of the poet, showing him essentially 
 to be a sound and vigorous thinker, playful as well as truthful, 
 warm in his social no less than in his religious feelings, and as 
 sarcastic as any city wit. 
 
 His principal poems are llic Progress of Error, Tritilu Table 
 Talk, Expostulation and 'The Task. They are all conceived in a 
 gravely religious and ethical spirit, but abound in couplets and 
 passages of singular felicity, where somelliing of the strength of 
 Dryden is combined with more of the keenness of Pope. In them 
 he has censured the social and moral abuses of the time, with a 
 sharpness of wir, and .-tcrnness of invective hardly to be expected 
 from a timid recluse like Cowper. Sometimes, ho\ve\'er. the verses 
 are marked by a kind of serious extravagance of sentiment, yet the
 
 Cowper. 328 
 
 good sense and piety which they exhibit, is very strikingly and 
 elegantly expressed. The latest of these, The Task, is perhaps 
 the most beautiful of his productions if one can be selected from 
 amongst a collection of the noblest inspirations of poetry though 
 in his life we read it was the least successful and obtained the least 
 popularity at the time of its publication. The success it afterwards 
 received, is, in fact, accounted for less in the real merit of the poem, 
 than in the circumstances under which it was written, and the 
 condition of English poetry at that period. In a brief sketch of 
 Cowper's life, which is attached to one of the later editions of his 
 poems, the author* accounts for the success of the Taskmiht 
 following remarks. " Never was the muse so silent as in the ^st 
 twenty or thirty years of the eighteenth century. Pope had been 
 long dead, and he had left no genuine successors ; Collins and 
 Gray were also dead ; "and though both were possessed of an 
 exquisitely pure genius, and may be pronounced the finest poetic 
 artists of their age, the subjects of their verse were not calculated 
 to awaken much interest in ordinary readers ; Goldsmith had 
 written too little, and even that little, however sweet and natural, 
 was not decisively enough original to constitute him a reformer ; 
 Robert Burns indeed was alive, but his first volume did not appear 
 until the following year, and even if it had been contemporary with 
 7"/(.' Task, the dialect in which he wrote unintelligible to English- 
 men; and south of the Border, in spile of iiis extraordinary powers, 
 he would have been, at the time, as uninfluential for good or 
 evil as the obscurest back in Grub Street ; the rest of Cowpers po- 
 etic contemporaries were utterly ignoble, and even their names 
 have for the most part passed out of I.uman remembrance. Thus 
 he had the field entirely to himself. Of course this was not alto- 
 gether an advantage. The absence of a supply in such a case 
 argues the absence of a demand. Poets do not come to us by 
 accident ; they spring up in answer to the deep desires of a people 
 and if they are not found at a particular period, it is because they 
 are not then wanted. The temper cf the age, so to speak, was 
 not poetical. A singular dullness had crept over the national mind 
 
 J. M. Ros*.
 
 324 Cowper. 
 
 or at least over the national sensibilities. The Church was dead 
 asleep, and Wesley's vehement evangelization was only a rough 
 attempt to rouse her from her slumbers. In the country it was the 
 golden age of squirearchy. The peasantry were submissive and 
 stupid ; the country-gentlemen, kindly, homely, and honest, as 
 they have always been, but immersed in rural pleasures, and in 
 many instances nearly as illiterate as the swains themselves. The 
 town {i.e., London) was intolerably gay, and its dissipation unre- 
 lieved, as at present, by the counteracting influences of a wide- 
 spread art and science. The French Revolution had to come 
 before the hearts of men could be set on fire again and poetry 
 deepen into a passion." This passage well sets forth the difficulties 
 to which Cowper was subject, and account accurately for the non- 
 success of this beautiful poem ; his readers not being in a condition 
 to vividly sympathise. There is another way however in which to 
 interpret this, without, in the slightest manner, suggesting any 
 detriment in Cowper's works, which are, in their style, true and 
 fine speciuiens of his peculiar genius. His peculiarity lay in this, 
 that he did not make any powerful demand on the sympathies of 
 the public. His thoughts were neither mystical nor profound; they 
 were not even subtle or warmly poetical. Seldom indeed has so 
 genuine a poet possessed so poor an imagination. He was as far 
 as possible from realizing his own description of the poet : 
 
 "A terrible sagacity informs 
 The poet's heart ; he looks to distant storms ; 
 He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers ; 
 And arm'd with strength surpassing human powers, 
 Seizes events as yet unknown to man, 
 And darts his soul into the dawning plan." 
 
 In point of ii/iaginative genius, Collin's Odt' to the Passions^ 
 
 though small in compass, far transcends everything that Cowper 
 
 wrote. Nature, whether animate or inanimate, revealed nothing to 
 
 him that it did not reveal to the humblest of his readers. The 
 
 plainness, even the ]:a)dncss, of his landscape and figure painting, 
 
 is astonishing. Let any one study, for instance, in the Winter 
 
 Morning Walk, in the Fifth Bookof TTri? Task, the poet's descrip-
 
 Cmvper, 325 
 
 tion of his own appearance as he moves across "the dazzling 
 
 deluge" of hardened snow. 
 
 " Tis morning ; and tlie sun, with ruddy orb 
 Ascending, fires the horizon : while the clouds 
 That crowd away before the driving wind, 
 More ardent as the disk emerges more, 
 Resemble most some city in a blaze. 
 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 
 Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale. 
 And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, 
 From every herb and every spiry blade 
 Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
 Mine, spindling into longitude immense, 
 In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
 That I myself am but a fleeting shade. 
 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
 I view the muscular proportion'd limb 
 Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair 
 As they design'd to mock me, at my side 
 Take step for step ; and as I near approach 
 The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall. 
 Preposterous sight I the legs without the man. 
 The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
 Beneath the dazzling deluge." 
 
 Or again the more minute and elaborate picture of the woodman. 
 
 " leaving unconcern'd 
 
 The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe 
 And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear. 
 From morn to eve his solitary task. 
 Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 
 And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur, 
 His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
 Now creeps him slow ; and now, with many a frisk 
 Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
 With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 
 Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy. 
 Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
 Moves right towards the mark ; nor stops for aught, 
 But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
 To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube 
 That fumes beneath his nose : the trailing cloud 
 Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 
 Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale, 
 Where, diligent to catch the first fair gleam 
 Of smiling <lay, they gossip'd side liy side, 
 Conic trooping at the housewife's well-known call 
 The feather'tl tribes domestic." 
 
 and he will at once admit the truth of our obacrvalion. It must 
 
 not be forgotten, however, that there may be found in his works
 
 326 Cowper. 
 
 many descriptions of a truly artistic kind, which would almost 
 
 vie in conception and language with any of Dryden or Pope. Take 
 
 for example the following, in the sixth book : 
 
 "The night was winter in its roughest mood, 
 The morning sharp and clear. Jjut now at noon 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
 And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 
 And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, 
 And through the trees I view the embattled tower 
 Whence all the music. I again perceive 
 The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
 And settle in soft musings as I tread 
 The walk still verdant, under oak and elm, 
 Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
 The roof though movable through all its length 
 As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
 And intercepting in their silent fall 
 The frequent flakes has kept a path for me. 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
 With slender notes and more than half suppress'd ; 
 Pleased with his solitude, and flitt'ing light 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
 From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
 That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
 Charms more than silence. " 
 
 Or the beautiful passages that immediately follows it, in which 
 
 we get as it were, a catalogue of flowers ; 
 
 " It sleeps ; and the icy touch 
 
 Of unprolific winter has impress'd 
 
 A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. 
 
 But let the months go round, a few short months, 
 
 And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, 
 
 Barren as lances, among which the wind 
 
 Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes. 
 
 Shall put their graceful foliage on again. 
 
 And more aspiring, and with ampler spread, 
 
 Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. 
 
 1'hen, each in its peculiar honours clad. 
 
 Shall publish, even to the distant eye. 
 
 Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich 
 
 In streaming gold ; syringa ivory pure ; 
 
 The scentless and the scented rose, this red
 
 Cowper. 327 
 
 And of an humbler growth, the other tall, 
 
 And throwing up into the darkest gloom 
 
 Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew. 
 
 Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf 
 
 That the wind severs from the broken wave ; 
 
 The lilac, various in array, now white, 
 
 Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set 
 
 With purple spikes pyramidal, as if 
 
 Studious of ornament, yet unresolved 
 
 Which hue slie most ai^proved, she chose them all ; . 
 
 Copious of (lowers the woodljine, pale and wan, 
 
 But well compensating her sickly looks 
 
 With never-cloying odours, early and late j 
 
 Hypericum all bloom, so thicl^ a swarm 
 
 Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods 
 
 That scarce a leaf appears ; mezereon too, 
 
 Though leafless, well attired, and thick laeset 
 
 With blushing wreaths, investing every spray ; 
 
 Althoea with the purple eye ; the broom, 
 
 Yellow and bright ;is bullion unalloy'd 
 
 Her blossoms ; and luxuriant above all 
 
 The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets. 
 
 The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf 
 
 ^Takes more conspicuous, and illumines more 
 
 The bright ]irofasion of her scatter'd stars. 
 
 These have been, and these shall be in their day ; 
 
 And all this uniform, uncolour'd scene 
 
 Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load. 
 
 And flash into variety again." 
 
 There is a total nbsense in this poet nevertheless, of those fine 
 analogies between the outer world of appearances and the inner 
 world of thought, the pcrcci)tion of which invtsts the former with a 
 most mysterious beauty, and thrills the soul with an exquisite joy. 
 "The light that never was on sea or shore,"' does not once play 
 upon his page. E\en the ordinary simile, with which every poet is 
 wont at intervals to decorate liis verse, is wanting. Hut again on the 
 other hand, tiiere is a quiet unaffected love of common English scen- 
 ery, of green fudds and river's banks, of woodbinds and leafy lanes 
 cf domestic scenes and fireside joy-^ in this poem, tiiat every-body 
 could appreciate and relish witliout supposing himself sentimental. 
 For instance, what could bo more truthfully and _\ct elegantly writ- 
 ten in this style than the following two or three passages : - 
 
 "O WiiiUT I mkr of the in\ertcd )ear, 
 
 Thy scatter'd hair with >leet like ashe^, lill'd.
 
 328 Cowper. 
 
 Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
 
 'L'han those af age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, 
 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
 
 But urged by storms along its slippery way, 
 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
 
 ^nd dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun 
 
 A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
 
 Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
 
 And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
 
 Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
 
 Compensating his loss with added hours 
 
 Of social converse and instructive ease. 
 
 And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
 
 The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
 
 Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares, 
 
 I crown thee King of intimate delight. 
 
 Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 
 Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours 
 
 Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates ; 
 
 No powder'd pert proficient in the art 
 
 Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
 
 Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 
 
 Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, 
 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
 
 ]5ut here the needle plies its busy task, 
 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
 
 Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 
 
 Unfolds its Ijosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs. 
 
 And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
 
 A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
 
 With most success when all besides decay. " 
 
 * * * )< 
 
 "I saw the woods and fields at close of day 
 A variegated show ; the meado\\s green. 
 Though faded ; and the lands, where lately waved 
 The golden harvest of a mellow brown, 
 Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share ; 
 I saw far oft" the weedy fallows smile 
 With verdure not unprofitable, grazed 
 By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
 His favourite herb ; while all the leafless groves 
 That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue. 
 Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of e\e. 
 To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
 Which even now, though silently perform'd
 
 Cm'per. 329 
 
 And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
 Of luiiversal nature undergoes. 
 Fast falls a fleecy shower ; the downy (lakes 
 Descending, and with never ceasing lapse, 
 Softly alighting upon all below, 
 Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
 Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green 
 And tender blade that fear'd the chilling blast, 
 Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. " 
 
 " The spring and playtime of the year, 
 
 That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
 
 With all her little ones, a sportive train, 
 
 To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 
 
 And prink their air with daises, or to pick 
 
 A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, 
 
 These shades are all my own. The timorous hare. 
 
 Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 
 
 Scarce shuns me ; and the stockdove unalarm'd, 
 
 Sits cooing in the pine tree, nor suspends 
 
 His long love-ditty for my near approach. 
 
 Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm. 
 
 That age or injuiy has hollow'd deep, 
 
 Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. 
 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth 
 
 To frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun. 
 
 The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play: 
 
 He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird. 
 
 Ascends the neighbouring beech, there whisks his brush, 
 
 And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud. 
 
 With all the prcttiness of cries alarm, 
 
 And anger insignilicantly fierce. " 
 
 The dic'.ion in tiiis poem also, is clear, picturesque and nervous 
 that we cannot deny its charms. It is the complete opposite of the 
 timid splendour of Thomson's style. There is also something very 
 attractive in its versification. It is perfect in originality, and pos- 
 sesses a wonderful flexibility, pitched for the most part in a kind of 
 quick-changing conversational tone, but rising often into a noble 
 energy, especially at the close of an animated passage, in a line of 
 sharp rising strength, the sound of which rings long on the ear. 
 We are bound to admire T/w Task not only for the freshness and 
 healthiness of Cowper's feeling for nature, his strong love of in- 
 door comfort and happiness, and his power of facile rhythm; but 
 for the true religious spirit that pervades it. Nothing can be more 
 earnest or written with greater truth and gravity than the passage 
 
 I R.
 
 830 Cmvper. 
 
 in which he describes with simple dignity the genuine preacher, 
 
 and reproves the trifler or jester in religious offices. We see in the 
 
 stirring and beautiful language which he has employed, a truly grave 
 
 and religious spirit. 
 
 "The pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled 
 .' " "With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
 With what intent I touch that holy thing) 
 The pulpit (when the satirist has at last. 
 Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, 
 Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) 
 I say the pulpit (in the sober use 
 Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) 
 Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, 
 The most important and effectual guard. 
 Support, and ornament of virtue's cause. 
 There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
 The legate of the skies ! His theme divine. 
 His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
 By him the violated law speaks out 
 Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet 
 As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. 
 He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
 Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart. 
 And, armed himself in panoply complete 
 Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
 Bright as his own, and trains, l)y e^ery rule 
 Of holy discipline, to glorious war. 
 The sacramental host of God's elect ! 
 Are all such teachers ? would to heaven all were I 
 But hark the doctor's voice ! fast wedged between 
 Two empires he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks 
 Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
 Than all invective is his bold harangue. 
 While through that public organ of report 
 He hails the clergy ; and, defying shame, 
 Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
 He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd, 
 And colleges, untaught ; sells accents, tone, 
 And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer 
 The adagio and andante it demands. 
 
 He grinds divinity of other days 
 
 Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
 
 To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
 
 Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. 
 
 Are there w ho purchase of the doctor's ware ? 
 
 Oh, name it not in Gath I it cannot be 
 
 That grave and learned clerks should need such aid, 
 
 He doubtless is in sport and does Init droll. 
 
 Assuming thus a rank unknown before 
 
 Grand caterer and dry nurse of the church !
 
 Cowper. 331 
 
 I venerate the man whose heart is warm, 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, 
 Coincident, exhibit hicid proof 
 That he is honest in the sacred cause ; 
 To such I render more than mere respect, 
 Whose actions say tliat they respect themselves, 
 But loose in morals, and in manners vain, 
 In conversation frivolous, in dress 
 Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse ; 
 Frequent in parks with lady at liis side, 
 Aml)ling and prattling scandal as he goes; 
 But rare at home, and never at his books, 
 Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card ; 
 Constant at routs, familiar witli a round 
 Of ladyships a stranger to the poor ; 
 Ambitious of preferment for its gold, 
 And well prepared, ])y ignorance and sloth, 
 By infidelity and love of world, 
 To make Gods work a sinecure ; a slave 
 To his own pleasures and his patron's pride : 
 From such apostles, ye mitred head 
 Preserve the churcli I and lay not careless hands 
 On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. 
 
 Would I descrilje a preacher, sucli as Paul, 
 Were lie on earth, would hear, approve, and own 
 Paul should himself direct me. I would trace 
 Ris masters strokes, and draw from liis design. 
 I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
 In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain, 
 And plain in manner ; decent, solemn, chaste. 
 And natural in gesture ; much impress'd 
 Himself, as conscious of his awful charge. 
 And anxious mainly tliat tlie tlock he feeds 
 May feel it too ; affectionate in look. 
 And tender in address as well becomes 
 A messenger of grace to guilty men." 
 
 And then he continues by lashing with satiric scorn, 
 
 "The things tlial mount the rostrum wilh a skip, 
 And then skip down again ; pronounce a text ; 
 Cry hem; and reading wlial they never wrote, 
 Just fifteen minutes, Inuldle \\\> their work. 
 And wilh a well-brod whisper close the scene I 
 
 In man or wom.in l)ut far most in man, 
 And most of all in man that ministers 
 And serves the altar, in ni}' >oul 1 loatlie 
 My alfcetation. "l.'is my jicrfcct scorn. 
 Object of my inip],ical>le disgust. 
 
 What I will a man jilay trick's ? \s'\\\ he indulge 
 A silly t'ond conceit of his fair firm. 
 .And just proportion, fashionable miLii.
 
 332 C(m>per. 
 
 A pretty face, in presence of his God ? 
 
 Or will he seek to dazzle me with ropes, 
 
 As with the diamond on his lily hand, 
 
 And play his brilliant parts before my eyes. 
 
 When I am hungry for the bread of life? 
 
 7Te mocks his maker, prostitutes and shames 
 
 His noble office, and, instead of truth, 
 
 Displayiug his own beauty, starves his flock ! 
 
 Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare. 
 
 And start theatric practised at the glass ! 
 
 I seek divine simplicity in him 
 
 Who handles things divine ; and all besides, 
 
 Though learned with labour, and though much admired 
 
 By curious eyes and judgments ill inform' d, 
 
 To )ne is odious as the nasal twang 
 
 Heard at conventicle, where worthy men. 
 
 Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
 
 Through the press'd nostril, spectacle-bestrid. 
 
 Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, 
 
 Their task perform'd, relapse into themselves ; 
 
 And, having spoken wisely, at the close 
 
 Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, 
 
 Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not! 
 
 Forth comes the pocket mirror, First we stroke 
 
 An eyebrow ; next com]wse a straggling lock. 
 
 Then \\'itli an air most gracefully perform'd 
 
 Fall back into our seat, extend an arm. 
 
 And lay it at its ease with f.',entle care. 
 
 With hankerchief in hand depending low : 
 
 The better hand more busy gives the nose 
 
 Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye 
 
 With ojjera-glass to watch the moving scene, 
 
 And recognise the slow retiring fair. 
 
 Now this is fulsome, and offends me more 
 
 Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect 
 
 And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind 
 
 May be indifferent to her house of clay. 
 
 And slight the hovel as beneath her care ; 
 
 But how a body so fantastic, trim, 
 
 And quaint in its deportment and attire, 
 
 Can lodge a heavenly mind demands a doubt. 
 He that negotiates between God and man. 
 
 As God's ambassador, tlie grand concerns 
 
 Of judgment and of mercy, should beware 
 
 Of lightness in his speech, 'lis pitiful 
 
 To court a grin, when you should wuo a soul ; 
 
 To break a jest, when pity woidd inspire 
 
 Pathetic exhortation ; and to address 
 
 Tho skittish fancy ^vith facetious tales, 
 
 When sent with God's connnission to the heart! 
 
 So did ii(;t Paul. Direct me \.o a quil'
 
 Cowpef. 383 
 
 Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, 
 
 And I consent you take ii for your text, 
 
 Your only one, till sides and benches fail. 
 
 No : he was serious in a serious cause, 
 
 And understood too well tiie weighty terms 
 
 That he had ta'en in charge, lie would not stoop 
 
 To conquer those by jocular exploits, 
 
 Whom truth and soberness assail d in vain.'' 
 
 The finest part of this poem is the 'rime Piece which embraces 
 
 the second Book. The passage with which it opens is delightful, 
 
 and expressed with a richness not to be surpassed by scarcely any 
 
 modern poet. 
 
 "O fi)i' a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
 Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war. 
 Might never reach me more ! My enr is pain'd, 
 My soul is sick, with everyday's report 
 Of wrong and outrage with which eirlh is flU'd. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdtu-ate heart, . 
 It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
 Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 }fe finfls his fellow guilty of a skin 
 Not colour'd like his own ; and, having power 
 To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prev. 
 Lands inlersected by a narro'.v frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else 
 Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
 Thus mnn devotes his bi-ollier, and destroys : 
 And, worse tiian all, and most to Ix' dt'])lored, 
 As humMU nature's broiidest. foulest hl(}t. 
 Chains him, and lasl<s him, and ex.-iets his sweat 
 With stripes, thiit Mere,-, with a lileedinn- heart. 
 Weeps when she sees inllieied on a 1um,~;. 
 Then what is man ? And what mau. Meinu' this, 
 And having human feelings, does not lilu-:h 
 And hang his head, to think liinisclt' a man ; 
 I would not have a slave to till my Ln-ound, 
 To carry me. to fan nie whilr I sleep, 
 kw\ ti-cmlilc when 1 wwVw lur all ilie wealth 
 That >ilie\v- lu)iii;li| and >->V\ have vWY earuM. 
 No : di'ir a.> (Veedoni i-, .and in niy heart's 
 JusI (>' imal ion jirized ah.ive all priei-. 
 I had niueh rallier he mv-ell the >lave. 
 And wear the lidnd-. th.m fallen them un hnn. 
 We have no sl.-ives ill home : -then uhv aliro.id ^
 
 334 Cowper. 
 
 And they themselves, once fen-ied o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and h^osed. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in lUiglnnd ; if their limga 
 Eeceive our air, that moment thev are free ; 
 Thev touch our country, and their shaclvle? fall. 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 , And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 
 And let it circulate tlirough every vein 
 Of all ycur ein])ire ; that where Britain's power 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. " 
 
 Cowper's Hymns sixty-eight in number are remarkably beauti- 
 ful. Some of them. " O for a closer walk with God, '' " Hear what 
 God the Lord hath spoken, " " Far from the world, O Lord, I flee." 
 and his last, "God moves in a mysterious way,'" deservedly rank 
 among the first in the English language : 
 
 "God moves in a mysterious way 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Deep in unfath'^anahle mines 
 
 Of never-failing skill, 
 He treasures up his bright designs, 
 
 And works his soven-ign will. 
 
 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take 
 
 The clouds ye so much dread 
 Are big with mercy, and shall break 
 
 In blessings on your head, 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
 
 But trust him for his grace : 
 Behind a frowning providence 
 
 He hides a smiling face. 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast, 
 
 L'^nfolding every hour ; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste, 
 
 But sweet will be the flower. 
 
 Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
 
 And scan liis work in vain : 
 God is his own inter]3reter. 
 
 And ho will make it plain. " 
 
 His little poem To Ma>'y is a miracle of sweet, pathetic tender- 
 ness, but Cowper could only write so feelingly when his heart was 
 strongly moved. Wem.iysee in tliesc verses, the deep and sorrow- 
 laden affection which sweihd the poet's bosom, written while 
 watching her life slowly settling down into night.
 
 Coivper. 835 
 
 'The Iwentietli ypar is well nigli pnst 
 Since first our sky was ovoronsi ; 
 Ah I would that tin's iniglit be the last ! 
 
 My Mfirj I 
 
 Tiiy spirits have a fainter How 
 
 I see thee daily weaker grow 
 
 'Twas mv distress that broiigiit thee low, 
 
 ATy Miiry ! 
 
 Thy needles, once a sliining store, 
 For iny sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more; 
 
 Vi\' Mary ! 
 
 For. though thou gladly wouldst fidfil 
 The same kind ofTice for mo still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thv will, 
 
 \U :\rai-y ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst; the housov>ife"s part, 
 And all thy threads witli magic art 
 TTare woiuid themsolvos about this heart 
 
 ]\Iy .Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expression seem 
 
 Like language uttfr'd in a dream : 
 
 Yet me thev charm, whate'er the theme, 
 
 My.Unry! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once anlnirn bright. 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 ]\Ty ]\Tary ! 
 
 For, could I view nor fhem noi- thee, 
 What sight worth sooing could I hpo? 
 The sun would rise in vain foi- me, 
 
 Afy Afary 1 
 
 Partakers of tliy sad decline, 
 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 
 Yet gentlv press'd, press t,'(>ntlv mine, 
 
 ^U Mary 
 Such, feebleness of limbs tlinu ]irovest. 
 That now at every sicp llinu mov.st 
 Upheld bv two ; vet >lill tiiuu luvcsf, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And blill to love, thouudi )>r.'ssM with ill. 
 In wintry age In iVc] n^ clrjl. 
 With m.^" is tn l)c luvrlv still, 
 
 .My Mai-.x I 
 
 But ah I l)y constant hecil I know, 
 How ijft the sadness that 1 show
 
 386 Cowper. 
 
 Ti'ansforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary !" 
 
 The Lilies on receipt of Ids Mother's picture, &x\-\\h\i in the same 
 
 manner as the previous poem, the force of his mind and imagination; 
 
 and the beautiful exclamation with which it opens, reflects the 
 
 whole beauty of the poem itself. 
 
 "O that those lips had language ! Life had pass'd 
 With me but roughly since 1 heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 Voice oidy fails, else how distinct they say, 
 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away I ' 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that can imortalize, 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same, 
 Faithful remembrance of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though luiexpected here : 
 Who bidst me honour with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that tbou art she. 
 
 My Mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers Yes. 
 I heard the bell toU'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A. long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone, 
 Adieus aiul fai-ewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting word shall puss my lips no more I 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wish'd, I long believed. 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
 
 Cowpef. 337 
 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child, 
 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow camo and went, 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 
 I learn'd at last submission to my lot. 
 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot, " 
 
 And as a last example of the tenderness and pathos that Cowper 
 
 often employed in his poems, take the lines On the Loss of the Royal 
 
 George. 
 
 "Toll for the brave! 
 
 The brave that are no more ; 
 All sunk beneath the wave, 
 Fast by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, 
 
 Whose courage well was tried. 
 Had made the vessel heel, 
 
 And laid her on lier side. 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds. 
 
 And she was over-set ; 
 Down went the Royal Geoige, 
 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Kemi)eiifelt is gone ; 
 His last sea-fight is fought ; 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 She sprang no fatal leak ; 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath ; 
 
 His lingers lield the pen. 
 Wiien Kempenfelt went down 
 
 Willi twice four hundred men. 
 
 Wcigli the vessel up, 
 
 Once dreaded liy our foes ! 
 And mingle with our cup 
 
 The tears that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound, 
 
 And she may float again, 
 Full cliargefl with England's thunder, 
 
 And ))loiigh the distant main. 
 
 But Kenii)enft'lt is goiio, 
 
 His victories an' o'or ; 
 And he and his ei^hl hundred 
 
 Shall [iloii^^rh tlio wave no more."'
 
 388 Crabbe. 
 
 Cowper's poems were the genuine utterance of his own heart ; 
 and the manly thought, vigour and simpHcity; their mingled hu- 
 mour and pathos; the variety and felicity of their descriptions of 
 men and things; and the elevated strain of Cliristian sentiment by 
 which they are pervaded, have secured their popularity while our 
 language endures. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 Crabbe. Very few poets have a stronger claim to popularity 
 than Crabbe, for all he wrote had good for its basis. No 
 mysticism, no extravagant misleading theories, or unintelligible 
 flights of imagination disfigure his manly verse ; it is truth clothed 
 in sense, and uttered in an impressive style, that fixes it in the 
 memory of the reader. He is said to be a "stern painter," but his 
 pictures of the class that formed the objects of his writings are not 
 such as to create antagonism betwecii them, and other classes ; he 
 can, as in his "Noble Peasant," draw attiactive pictures of the 
 poor, as well as sketches to claim pity for their state.* 
 
 Crabbe was a poet of great and original genius ; indeed there 
 is no poet of ancient or modern times more original, in point of 
 subject, language, imagery or sentiment. Created by circumstan- 
 ces the poet of the poor, Crabbe has given us pictures faithful as 
 Hogarth's, without the painter's biting satire ; they are stern as 
 Churchill's, without the poets malignant venom. His Annals of 
 the Poor, are revealments of man's life, which author's love not to 
 make, or readers to contemplate ; they are tlie hard reality of too 
 large a section of our race, for even the phiiar.thropist to hope 
 greatly to ameliorate. When Burns or Bloomheld seek to interest 
 us in humble life, we have the Cut ler's Saturday Aiglif, or the Fair 
 Z^^rj', to narm us into good and kindly feeling; but Crabbe grapples 
 with every-day miseries, with keen want and bitter thought. "To 
 
 to Crabbc's Works.' RoiitiL-u;;c.
 
 Crabbe. 339 
 
 the reader who would study human nature in a degraded sphere, 
 
 he is an anatomist who unshrinkmgly tears away the skin and the 
 
 flesh, and reveals the muscles, arteries and inward organs in all 
 
 their bare repulsive truthfulness." And in this lies his power and 
 
 beauty, but beyond this Crabbe is nothing. He possessed none of 
 
 the high-wrought feeling or powerful imagination whicVcreates for 
 
 its possessor a world independent of that which surrounds him; he 
 
 was insensible to music, he saw no attractiveness in painting or 
 
 architecture, and still more strange, took no delight in beautiful 
 
 scenery. "He resembled in all these deficiences," says a writer of 
 
 his life, "Johnson, Mackintosh, and other great men ;" but then 
 
 they were not what he was he was essentially a poet. The only 
 
 great oljject of nature that appeared to strike him was the SEA. 
 
 There is a passage in his RicJiard \s\\\z\\ exemplifies this fact : 
 
 " 1 to the ocean gave 
 
 My mind and thouglits as restless as the wave. 
 
 Wlicie crowds assoinl)lcd 1 was sure to run, 
 
 Hear wliat was said, and muse on what was done. 
 
 To me llie wives of seamen loved to tell 
 
 What storms endanger'd men esteen^'d so well ; 
 
 No sliips were wreck'd upon that fatal beach 
 
 But I could give the luckless tale of each. 
 
 In fact, I lived for many an iiUe year 
 
 In fond pursuit of agitations dear : 
 
 For ever seeking, ever pleased to find 
 
 The food I sou;^lit, I tliought not of its kind. 
 
 I loved to walk where none had wallc'd before, 
 
 About tiie rocks tliat ran along the siiore ; 
 
 Or far lieyond the siglit of men to stray, 
 
 And take my ]ileasure when I lost my way : 
 
 For then 'twas mine to trace the liilly heath, 
 
 Antl all the nujssy moor tliat lies beneatii. 
 
 Here had I favourite stations, where I stood 
 
 And lieard tlie murmurs of the ocean-Ilood, 
 
 With not a wjund beside, except when Hew 
 
 Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew . . , 
 
 When 1 no more my fancy could employ 
 
 1 left in haste wliat f cmild not enjoy, 
 
 And was my gentle mother's welcome boy." 
 
 It is the truthfulness of Crabbe's pictures that had stamped him 
 
 as a man of genius, and given him an cndtiring fame. Yet no 
 
 poetry has less ornament than his ; sometimes indeed, it is mean
 
 340 Crabbe. 
 
 and prosaic, but it always maintains its influence by its truthful- 
 ness. To lovers of sense and reason in poetry, such men as Crabbe, 
 Cowper and Goldsmith stands first. They do not plunge into 
 wild metaphysical theories, or produce illusion that dazzle for the 
 moment ; they deal in realities only ; and in this peculiarity stand 
 distinctly eminent. 
 
 Crabbe's want of imagination, may perhaps be accounted for by 
 the ungenial situation in which his early days were spent a 
 gloomy sombre marshy coast, with nothing but the sea to give 
 birth to the least romantic feeling. In his Lije, written by his son 
 it is described as, "a poor, wretched place ; lying between a low 
 hill or cliff, on which the church and a few better houses were then 
 situated, and the beach of the German Ocean. It consisted of two 
 parellel and unpaved streets, running between mean and scram- 
 bling houses, the abodes of sea-faring men, pilots and fishers. 
 The range of houses nearest the sea had suffered so much from 
 repeated invasions of the waves, that only a few scattered tene- 
 ments remained erect among the desolation. '' Nor was the 
 landscape in the vicinity of a more engaging aspect "open 
 commons and sterile farms, the soil poor and sandy, the herbage 
 bare and rushy, the trees, 'few and far between,' and withered and 
 stunted by the bleak breezes of the sea." What situation could be 
 less likely to create or feed the imagination than this t There can 
 be little doubt that the prosaic part of his character, and that in- 
 sensibility to nature's beauties which he always evinced, was the 
 effect of early impressions. "The characters he met with in early 
 life, '^ says his son, "were unsophisticated and rough; masculine 
 and robust frames, rude manners, stormy passions, laborious days, 
 and occasionally boisterous nights of merriment among such 
 accompaniments was born and bred the Poet of the Poor."' We 
 get a beautiful copy in The Village from this scene of his nativity 
 and boyish days : 
 
 " Cast bv Fortune on a frowning coast, 
 
 Which either groves nor happy valh'ys boast ; 
 Where other cares than those the Muse relates, 
 And other shepherds dwell with other mates :
 
 Crabbe. 341 
 
 Bj such examples taught, I paint the cot, 
 As Truth will paint it and as bards will not : 
 Nor you, ye poor, of letter'd scorn complain^ 
 To you tho smooth :'St song is smooth in vain ; 
 O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time, 
 Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ? 
 Can poets sootlie you, when you pine for bread, 
 By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? 
 Can tlieir light tales your weiglity griefs o'erpower, 
 Or glad with airy mirth tlie toilsome hour ? 
 
 Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er 
 Lends tiie light turf that warms the neighb'ring poor; 
 From thence a length of burning sand appears. 
 Where (he thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ; 
 Rank weeds, that ^v^v^ art and care defy. 
 Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye : 
 There thistles stretch tlieir prickly arms afar, 
 And to the ragged infant threaten war ; 
 There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ; 
 There the blue huglosrt paints the sterile soil ; 
 Hardy and hitch, above the slender sheaf, 
 The slimy mallow wave's her silky leaf ; 
 O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, 
 And clasjjing tares cling round the sickly blade ; 
 With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound 
 And a sa'l splendour vainly shines around ; 
 So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn. 
 Betray 'd by man, then left for man to scorn ; 
 Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, 
 While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose ; 
 Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, 
 Exposing most when most it gilds distress." 
 
 He goes on then to describe the common people of Aldborough 
 
 with the same truth and interest. He speaks of them as : 
 
 " a wild amphibious racCj 
 
 Who, far from civil arts and social l1y, 
 
 And scowl at strangers with suspicions eye." 
 
 Then follows in the same poem tlie beautiful passage, in which 
 
 he expresses the gloomy feelings he felt on quitting his native 
 
 place, a specimen of pure and true poetry. 
 
 "Here, wanil'rinL; loni;. amid llicse frowning fields, 
 I sought the simple life thai Natrn'o yields ; 
 Kapinc^'and Wron^. and l''car u>.ur])'d licr place, 
 And a bolcl. artrul, sml)', s:ivnL',c raic ; 
 VViio. only skill'd to take the tinny tribe, 
 'J'ho yearly dinner, or sej)tennial liride. 
 Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run liii:li,
 
 342 Crabbe. 
 
 On the toss'd vessel bend their eager eye ; 
 Which to their coasts directs its vent'rous way, 
 Theirs, or the ocean's miserable prey. 
 
 As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, 
 And wait for favouring winds to leave the land ; 
 While still for flight the ready wing is spread : 
 So waited I the favouring hour, and fled ; 
 Fled from these shores were guilt and famine reign, 
 And cried, Ah ! hapless they who still remain ; 
 Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, 
 Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore ; 
 Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway, 
 Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away ; 
 When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, 
 And begs a poor protection from the poor ! " 
 
 Crabbe was a studier of Pope, and both The Village and The 
 Library his earliest poems, are mainly formed on this model. 
 Though they were his earliest however and do not exhibit that rare 
 union of force and minuteness for which his later works are so dis- 
 tinguished, yet in themselves they are complete and faultless, and 
 show frequently traces of his own extraordinary peculiarity. The 
 description of the Parish Workhouse in The Village is the best 
 example of this. 
 
 "Behold yon house that holds the parish poor. 
 
 Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; 
 
 There, where the pal rid vapours, flagging, play. 
 
 And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day ; 
 
 There children dwell who know no parents' care ; 
 
 Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ! 
 
 Heart-broken matrOTis on their joyless bed, 
 
 Forsaken wives, and motliers never wed ; 
 
 Dejected widows witli unheeded tears, 
 
 And crippled age with more than childhood fears; 
 
 The lame, the blind, and far the Imppiest they 
 
 The moping idiot and the madman gay ! 
 
 Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, 
 
 Here brought, amid the scenes of grief to gi-ieve, 
 
 Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow 
 
 Mix'd with the clamoin-s of the crowd below ; 
 
 Were sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, 
 
 And the cold charities of luan to man : 
 
 Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, 
 
 And strong compulsion plucks Ihe scrap from pride; 
 
 But .still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 
 
 And pride embitters what it can't deny. 
 
 Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes.
 
 Crabbe. 348 
 
 Some jarring nerve that baffles your'repose ; 
 
 Who pre33 the downy couch, while shives advance 
 
 With timid eje, to read the distant glance ; 
 
 Who with sad pray'rs the weary doctor tease 
 
 To name the nameless ever-new disease ; 
 
 Wiio will) mock patience dire complaints endure, 
 
 Which real pain, and that alone, cm cure ; 
 
 How would you boar in real pain to lie, 
 
 Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die? 
 
 How would you bear to draw your latest breath 
 
 Where all that's wretched paves the way for death ? 
 
 Such is that room which one rude beam divides. 
 And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; 
 Where the vile bands that bind the thateh are seen, 
 And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 
 Save one dull pane, that, coarsely pntchd^ gives way 
 To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
 Here, on a matted Hock, with dust o'er spread. 
 The drooping wretch reclines his languid head. 
 For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 
 Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; 
 No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, 
 Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. " 
 
 In point of real merit, the Parish Register far exceeds either of 
 the two former poems. They contain certainly a few minute and 
 e.xcellent descriptions, but this poem is a succession of these des- 
 criptions ; it forms a chain of stories, whereas the former contains 
 no tale whatever, " they are didactic whereas in this, no moral 
 influence, is directly inculcated at all." In this poem the manner 
 of expression is as entirely his own as the singular minuteness of 
 his delineation, and the strictness of his adherence to the literal 
 truth of nature. Amongst the descriptive passages in this poem, 
 the following is admirably drawn. The description of the interior 
 of the cottage. 
 
 "Hcludd the cot, where thrives tli' industrious swain, 
 Source of liis pride, his pleasure, and his gain ; 
 Screeii'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray 
 Smiles on the window ii>ul ])rolongH (he day ; 
 Projecting tliateii the wooiiliiiie'!* briincliis sto]), 
 And turns their l)loss<)nis to (ho easenienl's top ; 
 .Ml needs roiiuii-c is in that cut eontain'd, 
 .And much that Taste, nnlauLiht anil inii'est rain'd, 
 Purveys delighled ; there f;iie loves to trace, 
 III one guv picture, all the royal race ; 
 .Vround the walls are heroes, lovers, kings ;
 
 344 Crabbe. 
 
 The print that shows them and the verse that sings. 
 Here the last Louis on his throne is seen, 
 And there he stands imprison'd, and his queen ; 
 To these the mother takes her child and shows 
 What grateful duty to his God he owes ; 
 Who gives to him a happy home, where he 
 Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free ; 
 When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried, 
 Are all these blessings of the poor denied. 
 There is King Charles, with all his golden rules, 
 Who proved misfortune was the best of schools : 
 And there his sons, who, tried by years of pain, 
 Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain. 
 
 The magic mill that grinds the gran'nams young. 
 Close at the side of kind Godiva hung ; 
 She, of her favourite place the pride and joy, 
 Of chaiTus at once most lavish and most coy. 
 By wanton act the poorest fame could raise, 
 And give the boldest deed the chastest praise. 
 
 There stands the stoutest ox in England fed, 
 There fights the boldest Jew Whitechapel bred ; 
 And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live, 
 In all the joys that ale and skittles give. 
 
 Now, lo ! on P]gypt's coast that hostile fleet, 
 By nations dreaded, and by Nelson beat ; 
 And here shall soon another triumph come, 
 A deed of glory in a day of gloom ; 
 Distressing glory I grievous boon of fate ! 
 The proudest conquest at the dearest rate. 
 
 On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo clock, 
 Of cottage reading rests the chosen stock; 
 Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind 
 For all our wants, a meat for every mind. 
 The tale for wonder and the joke for whim. 
 The half-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn. 
 No need of classing, each within its place, 
 The feeling finger in the dark can trace ; 
 'First from the corner, farthest from the wall;' 
 Such all the rules, and they suffice for all. 
 There pious works for Sunday's use are found ; 
 Companions of that Bible newly bo\md ; 
 That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved, 
 Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved ; 
 Has choicest notes l)y many a famous head. 
 Such as to doubt have i-ustic readers led ; 
 Have made tliein stop to reason 7L<hy ! and liozo '. 
 And, where they once agreed, to cavil now. 
 Oh I rather give me commentators plain. 
 Who with no d ep researches vex the brain ; 
 Who from tlie dark and doubtful love to run. 
 And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun ;
 
 Crabbe, 345 
 
 Who simple truth with ninefold reasons back, 
 And guard the point no enemies attack. 
 
 Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that slielf upon ; 
 A genius rare but rude was honest John ; 
 Not one who, early by the muse beguiled, 
 Drank from her well the waters undefiled ; 
 Not one who slowly gain'd the hill sublime. 
 Then often sipp'd and little at a time ; 
 Eut one who dabbled in the sacred S])rings, 
 And drank them muddy, mixed with baser things. 
 
 Hero to interpret dreams we read the rules, 
 Science our own, and never taught in schools, 
 111 moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern, 
 And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wanderings learn. 
 
 Of Hermit Qiiarll we read, in island rare, 
 Far from mankind and seeming far from care ; 
 Safe from all want, and sound in every limb ; 
 Yes ! there was he, and there was care with him. 
 
 Unbound and hoap'd, these valued works beside, 
 Lay humbler works, the pedlar's pack supplied ; 
 Yet these, long since, liad all acquired a niuno : 
 The Wandering Jew had found his way to famej 
 And fame, denied to many a labour'd song, 
 Crowns Thumb the Great, and Hickafhrilt the strong. 
 
 There too is he, by wizard power upheld, 
 Jack, by whose arm the giant brood were quell'd: 
 His shoes of swiftness on his feet he plac'd ; 
 His coat of drirkncss on liis lions he brac'd. 
 His sword of sharpness in his hand he took, 
 And off the heads of douglily giants stroke : 
 Tlieir glaring eyes beheUl no mortal near ; 
 No sound of feet alarni'd the drowsy ear ; 
 No English blood their pagan sense could smell. 
 But heads dropp'd licadlong, wondering wliy they fell. 
 
 These are the pejisant's joy, when, placed at ease, 
 Half his deligiited otTspring mount his knees. " 
 
 Wc have selected one tale from each part of this poem, BaptisDis, 
 
 Marriages and Burials, which will sufficiently testify to the merit 
 
 it has already held. 
 
 "Twin infants tlien appear, a girl, a l)0y, 
 Tir o'erflowiiig cup of Clerard Ablett's joy : 
 Seven have I nani'd, and hut six years liave passed 
 By liini and Judith since I bound thoiii fast; 
 Well ])leas'd. the l>ridcj,'r(>()m smil'd to iioiii- 'a vine 
 Fruitful and spreadin;,' round the walls he thine, 
 And branch-like be thine od'springl' -Gerard then 
 Look'd joyful love, and sol'tly said, 'Amen.' 
 Now of that vine he would no more increase, 
 Those playful branches now disturb his jjcace ; 
 Them he beholds around his table spread, 
 
 I T
 
 346 Crabbe. 
 
 But finds, the more the branch, the less the bread ; 
 And while they run his humble walls about, 
 They keep the sunshine of good-humour out. 
 
 Cease, man, to grieve ! thy master's lot survey, 
 Whom wife and children, thou and thine obey ; 
 A farmer proud, beyond a farmer's pride. 
 Of all around the envy or the guide ; 
 Who trots to market on a steed so fine, 
 That when I meet him, I'm asham'd of mine ; 
 Whose board is high up-heav'd with generous fare, 
 Which five stout sons and three tall daughters share: 
 Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care. 
 
 A few years fled, and all thy boys shall be 
 Lords of a cot, and labourers like thee ; 
 Thy girls unportion'd neighbouring youths shall lead. 
 Brides from my church, and thenceforth thou art freed: 
 But then thy master shall of cares complain, 
 Care after care, a long connected train; 
 His sons for farms shall ask a large supply. 
 For farmers' sons each gentle miss shall sigh ; 
 Thy mistress, reasoning well of life's decay. 
 Shall ask a chaise and hardly brook delay ; 
 The smart young cornet, who, with so much grace. 
 Rode in the ranks and betted at the race. 
 While the ves'd parent rails at deeds so rash, 
 Shall d n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash. 
 Sad troubles, Gerard! now pertain to thee, 
 When thy rich master seems from trouble free : 
 But 'tis one fate at different times assi;:n'd. 
 And cares from thee departing, he must find." 
 
 As an illustration of the next part, we have chosen the interesting 
 and beautiful story of Phoebe Dawson. 
 
 " Next at our altar stood a luckless pair. 
 Brought by strong passions and a warrant thei-e ; 
 By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride, 
 From every eye, what all perceived, to hide. 
 While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace, 
 Isow hid awhile aud then exposed his face; 
 As shame alternately with anger strove. 
 The brain, confused with muddy ale, to move; 
 In haste and stammering he perforni'd his part. 
 And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart; 
 (So will each lover inly curse his fate, 
 Too soon made ha])py and made wise loo late); 
 I saw his features take a savajie gloom, 
 And deeply tlire.-iten for the days to c ine; 
 Low spake the lass and li:^p"d and minced tl'.e while, 
 Look'd on th.e lad, and fidntly tried to smile ; 
 With softened speech and humbled tone she strove
 
 Crabbe. 347 
 
 To stir the embers o^doparted love ; 
 While he a tyrant, frowning wiilk'd before, 
 Fflt the poor pursp and sought the public door. 
 She sadly following in submission went, 
 And saw the final shilling foully spent ; 
 Thon to her father's hut Ihe pair wiihdrew. 
 And hade to love and comfort long adieu ! 
 
 Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain ! refrain! 
 
 I preach for ever ; but I preach in vain ! 
 Two sunnners since, I saw at Lammas fair, 
 The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there ; 
 When Plioebe Dawson gaily cross'd the green. 
 In haste to see, and happy to be seen ; 
 Her air, her manners, all wlio saw, admir'd : 
 Courteous thougli coy, and gentle thougli retir'd ; 
 The joy of yontli and health her eyes display'd. 
 And ea-se of heart her every look convey 'd ; 
 A native skill her simple robes express'd. 
 As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd ; 
 1'he lads around admired so fair a sight. 
 And Pho'be felt, and felt slie gave, delight. 
 Admirers soon of every nge she gain'd. 
 Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd ; 
 Envy itself could no contempt display, 
 Tliey wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. 
 Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place 
 Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace ; 
 But yet on Sunday eve, in freedom hour. 
 With secret joy she felt tliat beauty's power; 
 When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal. 
 That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 
 
 At length, the youth, orclain'd to move her breast, 
 Before the swains with holder spirit press'd ; 
 With looks less timid made his passion known, 
 And pleas'd by manners, most unlike lier own ; 
 Loud though in love, and confident though young ; 
 Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ; 
 By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, 
 He served the squire, and brusli'd tlie coat he made ; 
 Yet now, would i'ha'be her cunsent afford. 
 Her slave alone, again lie'd ino\nit the board ; 
 With lier sliould years of growinir love be spent. 
 And growing wealth : )See sigh'd, and iook"d consent. 
 
 Now, tlirongh thr> lane, up hill, and cross the green. 
 (Seen but by few rind blushing to be seen 
 Dejocled, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) 
 Led by the lover, wnlkM the silent maid : 
 Slow through the meadow.'^ rov'd they, many a mile, 
 Toy'd by each hank and trifled at each stile ; 
 Where, as he painted every blissful view.
 
 348 Crabbe. 
 
 And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, 
 The pensive dnmsel, prone to tender fears, 
 Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears: 
 Thus pass'd the allotted hours, till lingering hite, 
 The lover loiter'd at the master's gate ; 
 There he pronounc'd adieu ! and yet would stay, 
 Till chidden sooth 'd entreat'd forc'd away ; 
 He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, 
 And oft retire and oft return again ; 
 When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind. 
 The grief assum'd, compell'd her to be kind ! 
 For he would proof of plighted kindness crave. 
 That she resented first, and then forgave ; 
 And to his grief and penance yielded more, 
 Than his presumption had required before, 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ; refrain ! refrain ! ] 
 Each yielding inaid and each presuming swain, 
 
 Lo ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black. 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains. 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains ; 
 Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, 
 AVhose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled ; 
 Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low. 
 And tears unnoticed from their channels flow ; 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again ; 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes. 
 And every step with cautious terror makes ; 
 For not alone that infant in her arms, 
 But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. 
 With water burthen'd, then she picks her way. 
 Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay : 
 Till, in mid-green, she "trusts a place unsound, 
 And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground ; 
 Thence, but witli pain, her slender foot she takes, 
 While hope the mind as strength the fame forsakes 
 For when so full the cuji of sorrows grows, 
 Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 
 And now her path, but not her peace, she gains, 
 Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains ; 
 Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, 
 And placing first her infant on the floor. 
 She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, 
 And sobbing struggles with the i-ising fits : 
 In vain, fhey come, she feels th' inflating grief. 
 That shuts the swelling bosom from relief ; 
 That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd. 
 Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd ; 
 The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
 
 Crabbe, 349 
 
 With all tho aid her poverty supplies ; 
 Unfee'd, tlie calls of nature she obeys, 
 Not led by profit^ nor allured by praise ; 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease, 
 Slie speaks of comfort and departs in peace. 
 Friend of distress! the mourner feels tby aid. 
 She cannot pay tliee, but thou wilt be paid. 
 
 But who this ciiild of weakness, want, and care? 
 'Tis Phoibe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair ; 
 Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes. 
 Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : 
 Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, 
 For all his sufTering, all his bosom's smart: 
 'And then his prayers ! thf^y would a savage move, 
 And win the coldost of the af^x to love :' 
 But ah ! too soon his looks success dcclar'd, 
 Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd ; 
 The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot. 
 A captious tyrant or a noisy sot : 
 If present, railing, till he saw her pnin'd ; 
 If absent, 8i)Piiding what thfir bibours gaiu'd ; 
 Till that fair form in want and sickness i)iird. 
 And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 
 
 Then fly temptation, youth ; resist, retVain ! 
 
 Nor let me in-cach for ever and in vain !' 
 
 And for the third part, the truthful and impressive description of 
 the "noble peasant" Isaac Ashford. 
 
 " Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, 
 A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
 Noble be was, contemning all things mean, 
 His truth unqucstion'd, and his soul serene : 
 Of no man"s presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
 At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd : 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his face : 
 Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'tl, 
 Cheerful he seem'il, and gentleness be loved ; 
 To bliss domestic be his heart rcsign'd, 
 And with the tirmcst had the fondest mind ; 
 Were others joyful, he lookM smiling on, 
 And gave allownncc where be needed none ; 
 Clood he refused witli future ill to bu}-. 
 Nor knew a joy that caused rellectiou's sigh ; 
 A fiieml to \iitue, his unclouded breast 
 No envy stuni;. no jealousy di>tress'd 
 (Hane of tlie poor I it wonp.ds their weaker mind. 
 To nii>s one favour which their neighbours tind): 
 \'et far was he from stoic pride removed ; 
 He felt humanely, and he warmly loved :
 
 350 Crabbe. 
 
 I mark'd his action when his infant died, 
 And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; 
 The still tears stealing down that furrow'd cheek, 
 Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. 
 If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride. 
 Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 
 Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, 
 If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 
 Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 
 None his superior, and his equals few : 
 But if that spirit in Ids soul had place 
 It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 
 A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd. 
 In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd ; 
 Pride in the power that guards his country's coast. 
 And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 
 Pride in a life that slanders tongue defied, 
 In fact a noble passion, misnfined Pride. 
 
 He had no party's rage, no sect'iy's whim ; 
 Christian and countryman was all with him : 
 True to his church he came; no Sunday shower 
 Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
 Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, 
 By the strong glare of their new light direct : 
 'On hope, in mine'own sober light, I gaze, 
 But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze.' 
 In time severe, when many a sturdy swain 
 Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain ; 
 Isaac their wants would soothe his own would hide, 
 And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
 
 At length he found, when seventy years were run, 
 His strength departed and his labour done ; 
 When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more. 
 But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : 
 'Twas then a spark of say not discontent, 
 Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : 
 
 'Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied). 
 That in yon house for ruin'd age provide. 
 And they are just ; when young we give you all, 
 And for assistance in our weakness call, 
 Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, 
 To join your poor, and eat the parish bread ? 
 But yet I linger, loth with him to feed. 
 Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; 
 He who, by contract, all your paupers took. 
 And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
 On some old master I could well depend; 
 See him with joy and thank him as a friend ; 
 But ill on him who doles the day's supply, 
 And counts our chances who at night may die :
 
 Crabbe. 351 
 
 Yet help me, Heav'n ! and let me not complain 
 Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain.' 
 
 Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew ; 
 Daily he placed the workhouse in his view ! 
 But came not there ; for sudden was his fate, 
 He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate. 
 
 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
 And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : 
 I sec no more these white thinly spread 
 Round the bald polisli of that honour'd head ; 
 No more that awful glance on playful wight, 
 Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, 
 To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, 
 Till Mister Ashford soften'd into a smile ; 
 No more that meek and suppliant book in prayer, 
 Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there : 
 But he is blest, and 1 lament no more . 
 
 A wise good man contented to be poor. " 
 
 The Poem of The Bofough possesses even still greater beauties 
 than its predecessor, The Parish Register. The incidents, char- 
 acters, and descriptions of the latter are truthfully and admirably 
 drawn ; but in The Borough, there is that which not only pleases 
 the fancy, but grapples with the heart. Take for example the tale 
 of the condemned Highwayman. We are shown in the picture, 
 the virtuous young man, the happy lover, and the despairing felon, 
 in succession, with enougli of each state to give full force to its 
 contrasts. It is a true and atlecting picture, painted in vivid and 
 exact colours. 
 
 ''Not so he felt, who with her was to pny, 
 The forfeit, life with dread he viow'd the day, 
 And tiiiit short space which yet for him remain'd. 
 Till with Ills limbs his fiiCMltics were chiiind: 
 lie paced liis narrow bounds some eas to find. 
 But found it not, no comfort reach'd his mind: 
 Each sense was palsied ; when ho tasted food, 
 He sigh'd and said ; 'Enough 'tis very good, 
 Since ins dread sentence, notliing scem'd to fio 
 As once it was lie seeing could not see. 
 Nor iiearing, hear arigiit ; when first I came 
 Within his view, 1 fancied there was shame, 
 I judged resentment : I mistook the air, 
 These fainter ])assions live not witii despair; 
 Or but exist and die : - Hop . tear, and love, 
 Joy. doulit, and hale, may olher spirits move. 
 But touch nut his, who every waking hour.
 
 352 Crahbe. 
 
 Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its powei*. 
 
 'But will not Mercy?' No ! slie cannot plead 
 For such an outrage ; 'twas a cruel deed : 
 He stopp'd a timid traveller ; to bis breast, 
 With oatbs and curses, was tbe dagger press'd : 
 No ! be must suffer : pity we may find 
 For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind. 
 Still I bebold bim, every tbougbt employ'd 
 On one dire view ! all otbers are destroy'd ; 
 Tbis makes bis features gbastly, gives tbe tone, 
 Of bis few words resemblance to a groan ; 
 He takes bis tasteless food and wben'tis done, 
 Counts up bis meals, now lessen'd by tbat one ; 
 For expectation is on Time intent, 
 Wbetber be brings us joy or punisbment. 
 
 Yes! e'en in sleep tbe impressions all remain, 
 He bears tbe sentence and be feels the cbain ; 
 He sees tbe judge and jury, wben be shakes. 
 And loudly cries, 'Not guilty,' and awakes : 
 Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep. 
 Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep. 
 
 Now comes tbe dream again : it shows each scene, 
 With each small circumstance that comes between 
 The call to suffering and the very deed 
 There crowds go with bim, follow, and precede ; 
 Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn, 
 While he in fancied envy looks at them : 
 He seems tbe place for that sad act to see, 
 And dreams the very thirst which then will be : 
 A priest attends it seems, the one lie knew 
 In his best days, beneath whose care lie grew. 
 
 At this bis terrors take a sudden flight, 
 He sees his native village with delight ; 
 The bouse, the chamber, where he once array'd 
 His youthful person ; where he knelt and pray'd : 
 Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home, 
 Tbe days of joy ; the joy themselves are come ; 
 The hours of iimocence : the timid look 
 Of bis loved maid, when first her hand be took. 
 And told his hope, her trembling joy appears, 
 Her forced reserve and bis retreating fears. 
 
 All now is present ; 'tis a moment's gleam 
 Of former sunshine stay, delightful dream ! 
 Let him within bis pleasant garden walk, 
 Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk. 
 
 Yes! all are with him now, and all the while 
 Life's early prospects and liis Fanny's smile: 
 Then come his sister and his villnge friend. 
 And be will now the sweetest moments spend 
 Life has to yield ; No ! never will he find
 
 Crabbe. 353 
 
 Again on earth such pleasure in his mind : 
 
 He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, 
 
 Love in their looks and honour on the tongue : 
 
 Nay, there's a cliarm beyond what nature shows, 
 
 The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows ; 
 
 Pierced by no crime, and urged by no dosiro 
 
 For more tlian true and honest hearts require, 
 
 They feol the calm deliglit, and tlius proceed 
 
 Through the green lane, then linger in the mead, 
 
 Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, 
 
 And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum ; 
 
 Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, 
 
 And pi-es3 the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, 
 
 Wliere dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread, 
 
 And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed ; 
 
 Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way 
 
 O'er its rougli bridge and there behold the bay ! 
 
 The ocean smiling to the fervid sun 
 
 The waves that faintly fall and slowly run 
 
 The ships at distance and the boats at hand 
 
 And now they walk upon the seaside sand. 
 
 Counting the number and what kind they be, 
 
 Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea : 
 
 Now arm in arm, now ]:arted, tliey behold 
 
 The glitt'ring waters on the shingles roU'd : 
 
 The timid girls, half dreading their design. 
 
 Dip the small foot in the retarded brine, 
 
 And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow, 
 
 Or lie like pictures on the sand below ; 
 
 With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun 
 
 Through the small waves so softly shines upon ; 
 
 And tliose live lucid jellies which the eye 
 
 Delights to trace as thoy swim glittering by : 
 
 Pearl-shells and rubied star-lish they admire, 
 
 And will arrange above the parlour-flre, 
 
 Tokens of l)liss ! 'Oh ! horrible ! a wave 
 
 Roars as it rises save me, Kdward I save !" 
 
 She cries : Alas ! the watchman on his way 
 
 Calls, and lets in trutli, terror, and the day. " 
 
 The number nnd variety of characters employed in this poem, 
 
 is astonishing the more so when we remember that they are drawn 
 
 from a particular class, or order of people. In an observation upon 
 
 this poem, the poet himself says, ' 1 liave chiefly, if not cxchisively, 
 
 taken my subjects nnd cliaracters from tliat order of society, where 
 
 the least display of vanity is generally to be found, which is placed 
 
 between the humble and the great. It is in this class of mankind 
 
 I U.
 
 554 Crabbe. 
 
 that more originality of character, more variety of fortune will be 
 met with ; because, on the one hand, they do not live in the eye of 
 the world, and therefore, are not kept in awe by the dread of ob- 
 servation and indecorum ; neither on the other are they debarred 
 by their want of means from the cultivation of mind and the pursuits 
 of wealth and ambition, which are necessary to the development 
 of character displayed in the variety of situations to which this class 
 is liable." Many passages might be quoted as examples of this 
 remark, had we space. It would indeed be almost difficult to se- 
 lect one more interesting than another from these peculiarly 
 interesting sketches. Perhaps the most beautiful however, is the 
 pathetic and interesting story o{ Abel Keene. 
 
 " A quiet, simple man was Abel Keene, 
 He meant no harm, nor did he often mean ; 
 He kept a school of loud rebellious boys, 
 And growing old, grew nervous with the noise ; 
 When a kind merchant hired his useful pen, 
 And made him happiest of accompting men ; 
 With glee he rose to every easy day. 
 When half the labour brought him twice the pay. 
 
 There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son 
 Choice spirits all, who wisli'd him to be one ; 
 It must, no question, give them lively joy, 
 Hopes long indulged to combat and destroy ; 
 At these they levell'd all their skill and strength. 
 He fell not quickly, but he fell at length : 
 They quoted books, to him both bold and new, 
 And scorn'd as fables all he held as true ; 
 
 'Such monkish stories, and sucli nursery lies,' 
 That he was struck with terror and surprise. 
 
 'What ! all his life had lie the laws obey'd. 
 Which they broke through and were not once afraid ? 
 Had he so long his evil passions check'd, 
 And yet at last had nothing to expect? 
 While they their lives in joy and pleasure led, 
 And then had nothing at the end to dread ? 
 Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd 
 A part ! a speech ! for which the man was paid ! 
 And were his pious books, his solemn prayers. 
 Not worth one tale of the admired Voltaire's ? 
 Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd. 
 To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd. 
 And on all pleasures, which his purse could give, 
 Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live. ' 
 
 Much time he passed in this important strife,
 
 Crabbe. 855 
 
 The bliss or bane of his remaining life ; 
 
 For converts all are made with care and grief] 
 
 And pangs attend the birth of inibelief ; 
 
 Nor pass they soon ; with awe and fear he took 
 
 The iloweiy way, and cast back many a look. 
 
 The youths applauded much his wise design, 
 With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine ; 
 And much in private 'twould their mirth improve. 
 To hear how Abel spake of life and love ; 
 To hear him own what grievous pains it cost, 
 E'er the old saint was in the sinner lost. 
 Ere his poor mind, with every deed alarm'd, 
 
 ]5y wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd. 
 
 For Abel enter'd in his bold career, 
 Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear ; 
 Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went. 
 Repenting now, now dreading to repent : 
 With awkward pace, and with himself at war, 
 Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far ; 
 Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise, 
 And then proceed with l)lunders and delays : 
 The young more aptly passions' call pursue. 
 Hut age and weakness start at scenes so new, 
 And trem]:)lc, when they've done, for all they dared to do. 
 
 At length example Abel's dread removed, 
 With small concern he sought the joys he loved ; 
 Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame, 
 And first their votary, then their wit became ; 
 His jest was bitter and his satire bold. 
 When he his talcs of former brethren told ; 
 What time with pious neighl)ours he discuss'd 
 Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust : 
 'Such were our dreams, ' the jovial elder cried ; 
 ' Awake and live,' his youthful friends replied. 
 
 Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised. 
 And clad him smartly, as his friends advised ; 
 So fine a coat upon his back he threw, 
 That not an alley-boy old Abel knew ; 
 r.road polish'd l)uttons blazed that coat upon. 
 And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone, 
 A splendid watch, that pf)intcd out the time. 
 To fly from business and make free with crime : 
 The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose 
 Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux ; 
 His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain, 
 And light elastic locks encased his brain : 
 More jiliant pupil who could hope to find, 
 So deck"d in person and so changed in mind ? 
 
 When Al)el walk'd the streets, with pleasant mien. 
 He met his friends, delighted to be seen ;
 
 356 Crabbe. 
 
 And when he rode along the public way, 
 No beau so gaudy, and no youth so gay. 
 
 His pious sister, now an ancient maid, 
 For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd : 
 Then thus in love and scorn her notions sheconvey'd : 
 
 'Alas ! my brother ! can I see thee pace 
 Iloodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case, 
 Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race? 
 Lo ! thou art bound, a slave in Satan's chain ; 
 The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain ; 
 Ilis brother's blood against the murderer cried, 
 Against thee thine, unhappy suicide. 
 Are all our pious nights and peaceful days, 
 Our evening readings and our morning praise. 
 Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent. 
 Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent. 
 All that over grief a cheering influence shed, 
 Are these' for ever and for ever fled i^ 
 
 'When in the years gone by, the trying years 
 When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears, 
 Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst n(>t eat, 
 (Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat: 
 When grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe. 
 Slow pass'd the days of the successless year ; 
 Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then 
 Had gloriovis views, unseen by prosperous men : 
 And Vv'hen thy heart has felt its wish denied, 
 What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied ; 
 Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed. 
 By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed ; 
 Then I have seen thy lively looks express 
 The spirit's comforts in the man's distress. 
 
 'Then didst thou crj', exulting, 'yes, 'tis fit, 
 'Tis meet and right, my heart ! that we submit :' 
 And wilt though, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh 
 Against such triumphs? Oh I repent and pray. 
 
 'What are thy pleasures? with the gay to sit. 
 And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit ; 
 All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain. 
 And give a wicked pleasure to the vain ; 
 Thy long, lean frame by fashion to attire. 
 That lads may laugh and wantons may admire ; 
 To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see. 
 Unhappy maniac ! that they laugh at thee. ' 
 
 'These boyish follies, which alone the boy 
 * Can idly act, or gracefully enjoy. 
 
 Add new approaches to thy fallen state. 
 
 And make men scorn what they would only hate. ' 
 
 'What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove 
 A taste for follies which thou canst not love !
 
 Crabbe. 357 
 
 Why do thy stiffening limits the steed bestride 
 That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride ? 
 And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek) 
 Dost thou by niglit in Diamond-Alley sneak?' 
 
 ' Farewell ! the [larish will thy sister keep, 
 NA'here she in jieace shall pray and sing and sleep, 
 Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep, 
 When youth is fallen, there's hope the young may rise. 
 IJut fallen age for ever hopeless lies ; 
 Torn up by storms, and placed in earth once more. 
 The younger tree may sun and soil restore, 
 Ijut when the old and sapless trunk lies low. 
 Nor care or soil can former life bestow ; 
 Reserved for burning is the worthless tree 
 And what, O Abel ! is reserved for thee ?' 
 
 These angry words our hero deeply felt. 
 Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt ! 
 To gain relief he took a glass the more. 
 And then went on as careless as before ; 
 Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook. 
 And (save his ledger) saw no decent book ; 
 Him found tlie merchant punctual at his task, 
 And that pcrform'd, he'd nothing more to ask ; 
 lie cared not how old Abel play'd the fool, 
 No master he beyond the hours of school : 
 Thus tliey proceeding had their wine and joke. 
 Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke. 
 And, after struggling half a gloomy week, 
 Left his poor clerk another friend to seek. 
 
 Alas ! the son who led the saint astray, 
 Forgot the man whose follies made him gay ; 
 lie cared no more for Abel in his need, 
 Than Abel cared about his hackney steed : 
 He now, alas! had all his earnings spent, 
 And thus was left to languish and repent ; 
 No school nor clerkship found he in the place, 
 Now lost to fortune, as l>cfore to grace. 
 
 For town relief the grieving man applied, 
 And l)egg'il witli tears what some with scorn denied ; 
 Others look'd down upon the glowing vest, 
 And frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd ? 
 Happy for hinr his counliy's laws are mild, 
 They must sujiport him, though ihey still revil'd ; 
 Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd. 
 Of (Ind unmindful, and of man afraid, 
 No more he talk'd ; 'iwas pain, 'twas shame to speak, 
 Jlis heart was sinking, and his frame was weak. 
 His sister died with such serene deliglit, 
 He once again began to think her right ; 
 Poor like liimself, the happy spinster lay,
 
 358 Crabbe. 
 
 And sweet assurance bless'd her dying day : 
 
 Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh, 
 
 Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die. 
 
 The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door, 
 
 Just mention'd 'Abel !' and then thought no more. 
 
 So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn, 
 
 Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn. 
 
 And now we saw him on the beach reclined, 
 
 Or causeless walking in the wintry wind ; 
 
 And when it raised a loud and angry sea, 
 
 He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie : 
 
 He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow, 
 
 Close by the sea he walk'd, alone and slow : 
 
 Sometimes his frame though many an hour he spread 
 
 Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead ; 
 
 And was there found a sad and silent place. 
 
 There would he creep with slow and measured pace ; 
 
 Then would he wander by the river's side, 
 
 And fix his eyes upon the falling tide; 
 
 I'he deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen, 
 
 And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then: 
 
 There, ''to his discontented thoughts a prey. 
 
 The melancholy mortal pined away." 
 
 The poet has also introduced into tliis poem, many descriptive 
 
 passages of uncommon beauty gems that will ever adorn his 
 
 works with genuine lustre. Such in character is the following 
 
 elegant passage. 
 
 "Thy walks are ever pleasant ; every scene 
 Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene 
 Rich is that varied view with woods around. 
 Seen from the seat within the shrubbery bound, 
 Where shines the distant lake, and where a])pear 
 From ruins bolting, unmolested deer ; 
 Lively the village green, the inn, the place 
 Where the good widow schools her infant-race. 
 Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw. 
 And village pleasures unreproved by law : 
 Then how serene, when in your favourite room, 
 Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom 
 When from your upland paddock you look down, 
 And just perceive the smoke which hides the town ; 
 When weary peasants at the close of day 
 Walk to their cots, and part upon the way ; 
 When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook. 
 And shepherd jien their folds, and rest upon their crook. 
 We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees, 
 And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease. 
 On the wide heath or in the flowery vale,
 
 Wordsworth. 359 
 
 We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale ; 
 
 Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile, 
 
 And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile ; 
 
 Our guarded fields a sense of danger show, 
 
 Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow ; 
 
 Fences are form'd of wreck, and placed around, 
 
 (With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound ; 
 
 Wide and deep ditclies by the gardens run, 
 
 And there in ambush lie the trap and gun ; 
 
 Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prizcj 
 
 'Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies.' 
 
 There stands a cottage with an open door, 
 
 Its garden undefended blooms before : 
 
 Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool, 
 
 While the lone widow seeks the neighl)'ring pool : 
 
 This gives us hope, all views of town to shun 
 
 No ! here are tokens of the sailor-son ; 
 
 That old blue jacket, and that skirt of check. 
 
 And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck ; 
 
 Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore. 
 
 And furry robe from frozen Labrador," 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Wordsworth. Wordswortli is a poet in a sense peculiar to 
 liimsclf ; the whole of his poems from the shortest to the longest, 
 from the [most humble to the most impassioned, are composed 
 strictly upon the principles of one grand comprehensive system. 
 
 Wordsworth is a lover of nature ; not a blind confounder of the 
 creator with his own creation but a genuine, pure, religious lover 
 of the Universe, as a symbol of the immeasurable wisdoni and 
 majesty of God. Penetrated, as he himself says, to his 'heart of 
 hearts,' with this living idea, lie docs not pass l)y in neglect or 
 contempt any component part of this mysterious whole; he denies 
 not to any animate or inanimate being its due share of his love; he 
 recognises in all, tlie finger and impress of a supc'ricr l)cing; in 
 winter and summer, in storm or sunshine; in solitudes or in crowds; 
 in joy or afilliction, he is the same ; always extracting from human
 
 360 Wordsworth. 
 
 contingencies their universal essence ; inspiring in return his own 
 passionate and blended sympathies, and chastening and purifying 
 every thought and wish, by a spirit of unutterable love. Words- 
 worth is the greatest of those poets who have gone to common life, 
 to the feelings of universal nature, and to the obscure and neglected 
 portions of society for beautiful and touching themes. " Genius is 
 not a creator,'' in the sense of feigning and fancying what does not 
 exist. Its distinction is to discern more of truth than common 
 minds. It sees under disguises and humble forms, everlasting 
 beauty. This is the prerogative of Wordsworth to discern and re- 
 veal, in the ordinary walks of life, and in the common human heart. 
 He has revealed the loneliness of the primitive feelings, of the 
 universal affectiveness of the human soul, The grand truth that 
 pervades his poetry, is that the beautiful is not confined to the rare, 
 the new, the distant to scenery and modes of life open only to the 
 few ; but that it is poured forth profusely on the common earth and 
 sky ; that it gleams from the loneliest flower; that it lights up the 
 humblest sphere; that the sweetest affection lodge in lowliest hearts; 
 that there is sacredness, dignity, and loveliness in lives which 
 few eyes rest on that, even in the absence of all intellectual 
 culture, the domestic relations can quietly nourish that disinterested- 
 ness which is the element of all greatness, and without which, 
 intellectual power is a splendid deformity. Wordsworth is the 
 poet of humanity ; he teaches reverence for our universal nature; 
 he breaks down the factitious barriers between human hearts. "* 
 In this beautiful observation, the writer describes those simpler, 
 but for the popular mind, more attractive characteristics which so 
 touchingly and so powerfully appeal to the instincts and feelings 
 of our common humanity. From Wordsworth we learn that no 
 natural object or incident can be too low or insignificant for 
 poetry, nay, tliat in rustic life the passages are often more vigor- 
 ous and decisive; and the wliole system of society more genuine 
 and unadulterated than when encumbered and concealed by forms 
 of city ceremonial, and deadened by the depraving habitude of 
 perpetual though unconcious deceit. Still these are only the rude 
 
 * Wiliiam Ellerj- Channing.
 
 Wof dstiwrth. 361 
 
 materials of poetry ; they cannot become poetry itself, unless 
 arranged, modified and combined by the fancy, and above all 
 impregnated and shaped by the poet's imagination. Take for 
 example the Tarn O'S/ianter , oi Burns, and any of Bloomfield's 
 verses, and the reader will instantly understand and feel the differ- 
 ence with which humbler subjects may be treated by a poet and a 
 verse-maker. 
 
 Wordsworth is not a poetical man, but always and exclusively a, 
 poet ; or to give his own words : 
 
 " Thanks to the human heart by which we live ; 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thouglits that do often lie too deep for tears. " 
 
 The following passages are an evident proof in different manners 
 
 of his wonderful power of creating and colouring common objects 
 
 by the intenseness of his imagination ; 
 
 "He scans tlie ass from limb to limb ; 
 And Peter now uplifts his eyes ; 
 Steady the moon doth look and clear, 
 And like themselves the rocks appear, 
 And quiet are the skies. 
 
 Whereat, in resolute mood, once more 
 He stoops the ass's neck to seize 
 Foul purpose, quickly put to flight ! 
 For in the pool a startling sight 
 Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees. 
 
 It is the moon's distorted face? 
 The ghost-like image of a clouil ? 
 It is a gallow there portrayed ? 
 Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
 It is a coftin, or a shroud ? 
 
 A grisly idol hewn in stone? 
 Or imp from witch's la;) let fall ? 
 Or a gay ring of shining fairies, 
 Such as pursue their brisk vagaries 
 In sylvan bower, or haunted hall? 
 
 It is a fiend that to a stake 
 
 Of fire his desperate self is tethering? 
 
 Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 
 
 In solitary ward or cell. 
 
 Ten thousand miles from all his brethren. 
 
 Never did pulse so (juickly throb, 
 
 And novel* heart so loudly panted ; 
 
 [ V.
 
 362 Wordsworth. 
 
 He looks, he cannot choose but look ; 
 Like one intent upon a book 
 A book that is enchanted. 
 
 K\\, well a day for Peter Bell 
 He will be turned to iron soon, 
 Meet statue for the court of fear ! 
 His hat is up and every hair 
 Bristles^and whitens in the moon ! 
 
 He looks he ponders looks again : 
 
 He sees a motion hears a groan ; 
 
 His eyes will burst his heart will break 
 
 He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 
 
 And drops, a senseless weight, as if his life were flown." 
 
 Can anything, especially if read in connexion with the original 
 
 poem, be more intensely terrific than this passage? and yet what 
 
 is the real cause of the terror 1 Again : 
 
 ' ' And the smoke and respiration 
 Rising like an exhalation 
 Blend with the mist, a morning shroud 
 To form an undissolving cloud ; 
 Which, with slant ray, the merry Sun 
 'J'akes delight to play upon. 
 Never, surely, old Apollo, 
 
 He, or other God as old 
 
 Of whom in story we are told 
 Who had a favorite to follow 
 Through a battle or elsewhere. 
 Round the object of his care. 
 In a time of peril threw 
 Veil of such celestial hue ; 
 Interposed so bright a screen 
 Him and his enemies between ! " 
 
 Can anything be more natural and exquisitely beautiful than 
 this ? and yet what is the object which has become the cause of 
 this beauty .'' 
 
 Observe again, the miraculous fineness of melody and imagina- 
 tion displayed in the following lines : 
 
 "Withered leaves one two and three 
 From the lofty Elder-tree ! 
 Through the calm and frosty air, 
 Of this morning bright and fair, 
 luldying round and round they sink 
 Softly, slowly : one might think 
 ]<"rom the motions that are made, 
 Every little leaf conveyed
 
 Wordswofth 363 
 
 Sylph and Fairy hither tending, 
 To this lower world descending, 
 Each invisible and mute, 
 In his wavering parachute." 
 
 And yet inimitably beautiful as the passages of this kind are, they 
 are as dust in the balance when brought in contact with those 
 mighty energies of the soul, of which many of his longer odes and 
 blank verse are composed. We can see in them one eternal master 
 feeling an earnest faith in the intrinsic godliness and immor- 
 tality of the soul, raised upon the platonic theory of pre-existence; 
 differing from the sordid feeling of metempsychosis, in that he 
 believes the spark within us hath never been sullied or dimmed by 
 mortal incarnation before, but comes, as it were, fresh and original 
 from some unimaginable vision and enjoyment of the Deity. Hence 
 those passionate addresses to infancy; those melancholy retrospects 
 upon what is never to return again : for in our downward course of 
 life we go daily further from the fountain of our existence, and 
 become more and more ' earthy, ' and forgetful of that, 'imperial 
 palace whence we came.' Read .his own intense and exalted 
 creed in his own matchless numbers : 
 
 "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting, 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 Ilath had elsewhere its setting. 
 
 And Cometh from afar ; 
 Not in entire forgetfulncss. 
 And not in utter nakechiess, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 From God who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house ])egin tt) close 
 
 Upon tlic growing 15oy, 
 But he beholds the liglit, and wlience it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The youtli, wlio daily furtlier from the cast 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man [)crccivcs it die away. 
 And fade into tlie light of common day.' 
 
 These "shadowy recollections" then, arc the masterdight of all 
 
 our seeing ; they cherish us and have power to make :
 
 364 Wordswofth, 
 
 " Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence." 
 
 And then for the retrospect which a meditative and imaginative 
 
 mind can exercise : 
 
 "Ilence in a season of calm weather, 
 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 
 Which brought us hither ; 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither, - 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore ." 
 
 And still one more, and perhaps the most affecting of all ; the 
 
 lines from the poem on Revisiting the Wye, which should not be 
 
 read without also thinking. They are 
 
 " Nor less I trust, 
 
 To them I may have owed another gift. 
 
 Of aspect more suljlime ; that blessed wood, 
 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 
 Of all this unintelligible world 
 
 Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood, 
 
 In which the affectiveness gently lead us on, 
 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, 
 
 And even the motion of our human blood, 
 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 
 W^e see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft 
 In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turn'd to thee, 
 O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to Thee !" 
 
 Such passages as the following, show Wordsworth to be a great 
 
 poet, and the following are such as neither Milton nor Southey in 
 
 their highest moments would have been ashamed of. First in the 
 
 Address to H. C, six years old: 
 
 "O 'J'liou ! whose fancies from afar are brouglit ; 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
 And fittest to unutterable thought
 
 Wordsworth. 365 
 
 The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; 
 
 Thou faery voyager ! that dost float, 
 
 In such clear water, that thy boat, 
 
 May rather seem 
 
 To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 
 
 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky 
 
 Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ! 
 
 blessed vision! happy child ! 
 That art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 think of thee with many fears 
 
 For what may be thy lot in future years. " 
 
 Again in "Ruth" : 
 
 ' ' The youth of green savannas spake. 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 * * * -x- 
 What days and what sweet years ! Ah me ! 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 And all the while, "said he," to know 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 On such an earth as this, 
 
 * * * * 
 Through dream and vision ditl she sink, 
 Dcliglitcd all the while to think 
 
 Tiiat on those lonesome Hoods, 
 And green savannas, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 * * * * 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought. 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrouglit, 
 P'air trees and lovely flowers ; 
 
 The breezes their own languor lent : 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those gorgeous bowers." 
 
 Or in those two exquisite stanzas from ''Peter Bell 
 
 "At noon, when by the forest's edge. 
 He lay beneath the branches high, 
 The soft blue sky did never melt 
 Into liis heart. he never felt 
 The witchery of tlie soft blue sky I 
 
 On a fair ])rospoct some have looked 
 And felt as I have heard them say,
 
 366 Wordsworlh. 
 
 As, if the moving time had been 
 A thing as stedfast as the scene 
 On which they gazed themselves away." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 There is nothing comparable with some of the passages in the 
 Excursion, in any ancient or modern poet. The following two or 
 three passages will amply illustrate the entire beauty of Words- 
 worth's greatest poem. 
 
 " From his sixth year, the boy of whom I speak, 
 In smnmer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
 But, through the inclement and the perilous days 
 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 
 Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood 
 Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
 Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
 Of minster clock ! From that bleak tenement 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 In solitude returning, saw the hills 
 Grow larger in the darkness all alone. 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head. 
 And travelled through the wood with no one near 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw, 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 In such communion, not from terror free. 
 While yet a child, and long before his time. 
 He had perceived the presence and the power 
 Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 
 Great objects on his mind, with portraiture 
 And colour so distinct, that on his mind 
 They lay like substances, and almost seemed 
 To haunt the bodily sense. He had received 
 A precious gift; for as ho grew in years, 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 
 And being still unsatisfied with aught 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
 An active power to fasten images 
 Upon his brain ; and on tlieir pictured linos 
 Intcnstly brooded, even till they acquired 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did ho fail, 
 While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
 Incessantly to turn his oar and eye 
 On all things which the moving seasons bi'ought 
 To feed such appetite: nor this alone 
 Appeaf^ed his yearning : in the after day 
 Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 
 He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments,
 
 ]Vordsworth. 367 
 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 
 Or by cieatiTe feeling overborne, 
 Or by predonii nance of tbougbt oppressed, 
 Even in tbeir fixed and steady lineanionts 
 lie traced an ebbing and a flowing inind, 
 Expressions ever varying ! 
 
 it * * * 
 
 Such was Ibe boy but for the growing youth 
 Wbat soul was his, when, from the naked top 
 Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light! lie looked 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
 In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touclicd, 
 And in tbeir silent faces did be read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none. 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle : seiisatioti, soul, and form 
 All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 Ills animal being ; in them did he live. 
 And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
 In such access of mind, in sucli high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not, in enjoyment it expired. 
 No tiianks bo breathed, he proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect ofllces of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 A herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence (McwK'ww^?, possessed. 
 Oh, then how beautiful, how brigiit appeared 
 The written promise! Early had he learned 
 To reverence the volume tliat- dis])lay3 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
 But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
 Responsive to the writing, all tilings there 
 Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
 And grealnoss still revolving ; infinite, 
 Tiieir littleness was not ; the least of things 
 Seemed infinite; and tjiere his sjiirit shaped 
 Her prospects, now did ho lielieve, he sa-i\ 
 "Wiiat wonder it his l)eing thus became 
 Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires. 
 Low thoughts liad there no plnce; yet was his liearl 
 IjOwIv ; for lie was meek in gralitnde. 
 Oft as lie callinl tliese ecstacies to mind 
 And whene(> tliey flowed ; and from them lie acquired 
 Wisdom, which works through paticnce,thencebelcarned
 
 368 Wordsworth. 
 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
 To look on nature with a humbler heart, 
 Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to the nearest town, 
 He duly went with what small overplus 
 His earnings iniglit supply, and brought away 
 The book that most had tempted his desires 
 While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
 He gazed uj^on that mighty orb of song. 
 The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life. 
 His schoolmaster supplied ; books that explain 
 Tlie purer elements of truth involved 
 In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 (Especially perceived where nature droops 
 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 These occupations oftentimes deceived 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow vale 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do, 
 Tlius daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
 With blind endeavours ? yet still uppermost. 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
 Though yet he knew not how a wasting power 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms. 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth, 
 Willie yet he lingered in the rudiments 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws, 
 His triangles they were the stars of heaven, 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
 That is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak 
 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows 
 Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought, 
 Upon its bleak and visionary sides, 
 The history of many a wintry storm, 
 Or obscure records of the path of lire. " 
 
 Than again in the following beautiful passage in which he has 
 
 described a child listening to a shell, and beautifully compared it 
 
 to the murmurings of faith. 
 
 " 1 have seen 
 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lii^pcd shell ;
 
 Wordsworth. 369 
 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 
 Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 
 Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from within 
 
 Were heard, sonorous cadences ! wiiereby 
 
 To his belief, the monitor expressed 
 
 Mysterious union with its native sea. 
 
 Even such a shell the universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of faith ; and there are times, 
 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever during power ; 
 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 
 Of endless agitation. " 
 
 Or for a last quotation, the following, and most beautiful of the 
 
 three. 
 
 "The Vicar paused; and towards a seat advanced, 
 A long stone-seat, fixed in the churchyard wall ; 
 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
 Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
 Who seek tlie house of worship, while the bells 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 Under the shade we all sate down; and there 
 Ills ofGce, uninvited, lie resumed. 
 
 "As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
 Screened by its parent, so tliat little mound 
 Lies guarded bv its neighbour; the small heap 
 Speaks for itself, an infant there doth rest. 
 The sheltering hillocks is the mother's grave. 
 If mild discourse, and manner tliat confei'red 
 A natin-al dignity on humblest rank ; 
 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 Than beauty lor the fairest face can do; 
 And if religious tenderness of jieart, 
 Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
 Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
 Tf these mav make a hallowed spot of earth 
 More holy in the sight of Hod or man ; 
 Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity .shall brood. 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 
 
 " Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless !nan, 
 Could field or groye. or any spot of earth, 
 Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
 Wliicli it hath witnnssod ; render liack an echo 
 Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
 
 I W.
 
 370 Wordsivorth 
 
 There, by her innocent baby's precious grave, 
 
 Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own, 
 
 The mother oft was seen to stand or kneel 
 
 In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene, 
 
 Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
 
 Of tlie fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
 
 Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
 
 Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 
 
 Who, at lier hearts light bidding, once had moved 
 
 In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 
 
 Caught from the pi-essure of elastic turf 
 
 Upon tbe mountains gemmed with morning dew, 
 
 In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
 
 Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; and yet. 
 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare. 
 
 The form, port, motions of this cottage-girl 
 
 Were such as tnight have quickened and inspired 
 
 A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
 
 What time the hunters earliest horn is heard 
 
 Startling the golden hills. A wide spread elm 
 
 Stands in our valley, named the joyful tree ; 
 
 From dateless usage which our peasants hold 
 
 Of giving welcome to the first of May 
 
 By dances, round its trunk. And if the sky 
 
 Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
 
 To the Twelfth Night ; beneath the frosty stars, 
 
 Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports. 
 
 If not in beauty, yet in sprightly air. 
 
 Was ha]iless Ellen, No one touched the groimd 
 
 So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
 
 Less. gracefully were braided ; but this praise 
 
 Methinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 "She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved: 
 The road is dim, the current un]ierceived, 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful. 
 By which a virtuous woman in pure youth, 
 May be delivered to distress and shame. 
 Such fate was hers. Tlie last time Ellen danced, 
 Among her equals, round the joytul tree, 
 Slie bore a socret burtlien : and full soon 
 Was left to tremble for a breaking vow 
 Thmi, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
 Alone, M'itljin her widowVl mother's house. 
 It was the season sweet, of budding leaves. 
 Of days advancing towards their utmost length. 
 And small birds singing to their happy mates. 
 Wild is the nnisic of the autumnal wind 
 Among the faded woods : but these blithe notes
 
 Wordsworth, 37 1 
 
 Strike the deserted to the heart : I speak 
 
 Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
 
 Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 
 Stands a tall ash tree ; to whose topmost twig 
 
 A thrush resorts, and annually chants, 
 
 At morn and evening, from that naked perch, 
 
 While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
 
 A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
 
 Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
 
 *Ah why,' said Ellen, singing to herself, 
 
 'Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge, 
 
 And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 
 
 And reason that in man is wise and good; 
 
 And fear of him who is a righteous J udge, 
 
 Why do not these prevail for human life. 
 
 To keep two hearts together, that began 
 
 Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 
 Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 
 To grant, or be received ; while tlmt poor bird. 
 
 Oh, com-- and hear him ! thou who hast to mo 
 
 Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature, 
 
 One of God's simple children that yet know not 
 
 The universal Parent, how he sings. 
 
 As if he wished the lirmament of heaven 
 
 Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
 
 Of his triumphimt coiisrancy and love ; 
 
 The proclamation tliat ho makes, how far 
 
 His darkness doth transcend our fickle light ! 
 
 "Such was the lender passage, not by me 
 Repeated without loss of simple phrase. 
 Which I perused, even as the words had been 
 Committed by forsaken Ellen's h;uid 
 To the blank margin of a valentine, 
 Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 Of all companionship, tlie suflerer yet 
 In lonely reading found a n)eek resource. 
 How tluinkfiil lor the warmth of siimnier dnvs, 
 When she could slip into tlic cottage-barn. 
 And find a secret oratory there; 
 Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
 Of their long twilight, pure upon her book 
 By the last lingeriiiLC help of open t^ky. 
 Till the (lark nitflit disini.-r^'Ml liri- to iier bed I 
 Thus did a waking faney sunirl inirs lose 
 The uiicoiupierable pani; o)^ despised love, 
 
 "A kindlier pass^ioii opened on lin- soul 
 When that poor child was born. L'pon its lace 
 She looked as on a pure ami .~jiotle.--s gift
 
 372 Wordswotth. 
 
 Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
 
 Or dread was all that had been thought of ^joy, 
 
 Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels 
 
 Amid a perilous waste, that all night long 
 
 Hath harassed him tailing through fearful storm, 
 
 When he beholds the first pale speck serene 
 
 Of day-spring, in the gloomy east revealed, 
 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. 'Till this hour,' 
 
 Thus in her mother's hearing Ellon spake, 
 
 'There was a stony regioTi in my heart ; 
 
 But he, at whose command the parched rock 
 
 Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 
 
 Hath opened that obduracy, and made 
 
 Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 
 
 To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I look 
 
 Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee 
 
 My infant ! and for that good mother dear, 
 
 Who bore me, and hath prayed for me in vain, 
 
 Yet not in vain, it shall not be in vain.' 
 
 She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled ; 
 
 And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return. 
 
 They stayed not long, The blameless infant grew ; 
 
 The child whom Ellen and her mother loved 
 
 They soon were proud of; tendered it and nursed, 
 
 A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
 
 Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 
 
 Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
 
 With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 
 
 Fair-flowering in a thinly peopled house, 
 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adoi-ns. 
 
 Through four months' space the infant drew its food 
 
 From the maternal breast, then scruples rose ; 
 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed 
 
 The sweet affection. She no more could bear 
 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 
 On a kind parent willing to forget 
 
 Their slender means; so, to that parent's care 
 
 Trusting in her child, she left their common home, 
 
 And with contented spirit undertook 
 
 A foster mother's office. 
 
 'Tis perchance, 
 Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
 Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less 
 TliC ungentle mind can easily find means 
 To impose severe restraints and laws unjust : 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel. 
 For (blinded by an over-anxious dread
 
 Wordsworth, 373' 
 
 Of such excitement and divided thought 
 As with her office would but ill accord) 
 The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 
 Forbade her all communion with her own ; 
 Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 
 So near ! yet not allowed, upon that sight 
 To fix her eyes alas ! 'Twas hard to bear .' 
 But worse affliction must be borne far worse ; 
 For 'tis heaven's will that, after a disease 
 Begun and ended within three days' space, 
 Her child should die ; as Ellen now exclaimed, 
 Her-own-deserted child ! Once, only once, 
 She saw it in that mortal malady : 
 And, on the burial day, could scarcely gain 
 Permission to attend its obsequies. 
 She reached the house last of the funeral train ; 
 And someone, as she entered, having chanced 
 To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
 Nay, said she, with a commanding look, a spirit 
 Of anger never seen in her before, 
 'Nay, ye must wait my (ime I' and down she sate, 
 And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
 Weepiuj;; and looking, looking on and weeping. 
 Upon the last sweet slumber of her child, 
 Until at length her soul was satisfied. 
 
 "You. see the infant's grave ; and to this spot. 
 The mother, oft as she was sent abroad. 
 And whatsoe'er the errand, urged her steps : 
 Hither she came ; and here she stood, or knelt 
 In the broad day a rueful Magdalene! 
 She call'd her ; for not only she bewailed 
 A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
 Her own transgression ; penitent sincere 
 As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye. 
 At length the parents of the foster-ciiild, 
 Nothing; that in despite of their commands 
 Sbe still renewed and could not but renew 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth, 
 Or, to tlie garden's narrow bonnds, confined. 
 I failed not to remind them thai thfv erred ; 
 For holy nature miglit not tlnis be crossed, 
 Tiius wronged in woninn's breast : in vain I pleaded- 
 But the green stalk of J'^llen's lifo was snapped. 
 And the flower di'oiil, as esery eye could see. 
 It hung its liead in mortal languisiimenl. 
 Aided by this ai>pcai-anoi', I at lengtli 
 Prcvailetl. and, fi-oni tlioso bonds ri'leascd, slio went 
 Home to her luotlicr's liouso. The youlii was lied; 
 Tlie rasli bet raver could not I'acp the shame 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ;
 
 374 Wordsworth. 
 
 And little would his presence, or proof given 
 
 Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
 
 For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
 
 From Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to her mind 
 
 For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, 
 
 Save only those which to their common shame 
 
 And to his mortal being appertained : 
 
 Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
 
 A heavenly comfort; there she recognised 
 
 An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
 
 There, and, as seemed, there only. She had built, 
 
 Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest, 
 
 In blindness all too near the river's edge; 
 
 That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
 
 Had swept away, and now her spirit longed 
 
 For its last flight to heaven's security. 
 
 The bodily frame was wasted day by day; 
 
 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares. 
 
 Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
 
 And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought. 
 
 And much she read, and brooded feelingly 
 
 Upon her own vmworthiness.- To me, 
 
 As to a spiritual comforter and friend. 
 
 Her heart she opened, and no pains were spared 
 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
 
 The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
 
 Meek Saint ! through p;itience glorified on earth ! 
 
 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
 
 The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
 
 A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 
 
 May I not mention that, within those walls, 
 
 In due observance of her pious wish, 
 
 The congregation joined with me in prayer 
 
 For her soul's good ? Nor was that ofiice vain. 
 
 Much did she suffer : but, if any friend, 
 
 Beholding her condition, at the sight 
 
 Gave way to words of pity or complaint. 
 
 She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
 
 'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 
 
 And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
 
 Will mercifully take me to himself.' 
 
 So, through the cloud of death, her spirit passed 
 
 Into that pure and unknown Avorld of love, 
 
 Where injury cannot come : and here is laid 
 
 The mortal body by her infant's side. " 
 
 We will finish our remarks on Wordsworth, by quoting;- the 
 
 following passage from the poet himself. 
 
 " If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 Of young Imagination have kept pure 
 Stranger I henceforth be warned ; and know, that pride,
 
 Coleridge. 375 
 
 Howe'er disguised in it own majesty, 
 
 Is littleness ; that he wlio feels contempt 
 
 For every living thing, hath faculties 
 
 Which he has never used, tliat thought with him 
 
 Is in its infancy. Thfi man whose eye 
 
 Is ever on himself, doth look on one. 
 
 The least of nature's works ; one who might move 
 
 Tiie wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 
 Unlawful ever. O be wiser Thou ! 
 
 Instructed tliat true knowledge leads to love. 
 
 True dignity al)ides with him alone 
 
 Who, in the silent hour of inwarri thought. 
 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself. 
 
 In lowliness of iieart. " 
 
 CHAPTER XX VI J. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Coleridge. Some writer has said, "Cold must be the temper- 
 ature of that man's mind, who can rise from the perusal of the poems 
 of Coleridge without feeling that interest, and those vivid emotions 
 of delight which are ever excited by the wondrous operations of the 
 magic wand of genius. To those whom constitution and cultivation 
 have initiated into the sacred mysteries of song, whose mental 
 optics have often been enraptured with the delights of ecstatic 
 vision, and whose ear is tremulous to the touch of those harmo- 
 nious undulations, which fancy pours from her soul-subduing shell ; 
 to such, the genius of Coleridge, even in its wildest aberrations, 
 can never be listened to with indifference." 
 
 Coleridge delights the imagination while he satisfies the judg- 
 ment; brings tc the mind's eye all the treasures of his rich and elegant 
 fancy, without having recourse to any ludicrous imitations of sounds 
 foreign to the human organ, or trifling earnestness of reiteration. 
 Take for instance the following beautiful effusions in Cliristabcl : 
 
 "Tlioy pari 0(1 iu>'cr to moot ajiain I 
 But never either found anotlier 
 'J'o 'iw^i^ the hollow heai't I'mni paining 
 They stood aloof, the .^ears remaining. 
 Like clilTs which had bcci\ rent asumler ;
 
 376 Coleridge. 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between, 
 
 But neither ! eat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Sliall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. '' 
 
 Or the beautiful conclusion to Part the Second of that same 
 
 poem. 
 
 " A little child, a limber elf, 
 Singing, dancing to itsf^lf, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks 
 That always finds and never seeks. 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 Must needs express his lore's excess 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so unlike each other ; 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm, 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 Per'iaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 And what if in a world of sin 
 (O sorrow and sliame should tliis be true) 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain 
 So talks as it's most used to do." 
 
 There are few passages in any ancient or modern poetry equal to 
 
 the following : 
 
 " Hence ! thou lingerer, light ! 
 Eve saddens into night. 
 Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we view 
 The sombre hours, that, round thee stand 
 With down-cast eyes (a duteous band !) 
 Their dark robes dripi^ing with the heavy dew. 
 Sorceress of the ebon throne ! 
 Thy power the Pixies Own, 
 When rotuid thy raven brow, 
 Heaven's lucent roses glow. 
 And clouds, in wat'ry colours drest, 
 Float in light drapery o'er the sable vest ; 
 What time tlic pale moon sheds a softer day, 
 Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam : 
 For mid the quiv'ring light 'tis ours to play. 
 Aye glancing to the cadence of the stream." 
 
 Does not the following bring to the mind's eye many a spot of 
 
 bhss in lovely England:
 
 Colendge. 377 
 
 "Low was our pretty cot! our tallest rose 
 Peeped nt the chamber window. We could hear 
 At silent noon, (\nd eve, nnd early morn, 
 Tlie sea's faint murmur. In the open r.ir 
 Oui- niyitli'9 blossomed; and across the porch 
 'J'hiek jasmine twined: iho little landscape round 
 Was gre<'n and woody and retVeslipd the eye. 
 It wa a spot, which you might aptly call 
 The V^ailey of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
 (Ilullowiiig his Sabbath-Day by quietness) 
 A wealthy son uf commerce sainiter by, 
 Bristowa's citizen ; methotight, it calmed 
 His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
 With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked 
 With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around. 
 Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again, 
 And sighed, and said, it tms a blessed place. 
 And we ivere blessed. Oft with patient ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wing.) 'And such,' I said 
 'The inobtrusive song of happiness 
 Unearthly minstre'sy I then only heard 
 When tiio soul seeks to iiear, when all is hushed 
 And t he lieart listens ! ' " 
 
 And the panoramic view which follows, is written in the most 
 
 beautiful style of poetic painting. 
 
 " O what a goodly scene. Here the bleak mount, 
 The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
 Grey clouds, that shadowing sjiot the sunny fields 
 And river, now with bushy rock's o'erbrowed. 
 Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
 And scats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood, 
 And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire : 
 The Channel there, the islands and white sails, 
 Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless ocean 
 It seemed like omnipresence ! (Jod, methought, 
 Had built him there a temple : the whole world 
 Seemed imaged in its vast circumference. 
 No wish profaned my o\'erwh(_-lin'''d heart. 
 lUesl hour ! it was a luxury t(j he I 
 
 Ah quiet dell I dear cot I and mount sublime 
 I was c<jnstrained to quit you. Was it right, 
 While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, 
 That I sh<)uld dream away the entrusted hours 
 Oir ro>c-leaf beils. panip'ring the coward heart 
 With feelings all too delicate for use? 
 Sweet is the tear that from s<uno Howard's eye 
 Drop^ on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 
 .\ntl he, that works me good with unmoved face, 
 
 I X.
 
 878 Coleridge. 
 
 Does it but half : he chills me while he aids, 
 
 My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
 
 Yet even this, this cold beneficence] 
 
 Seizes my praise, when I reflect on those, 
 
 The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 
 
 Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 
 
 Nursing in some delicious solitude 
 
 Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 
 
 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 
 
 Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
 
 Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 
 
 Yet oft when after honourable toil 
 
 Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream, 
 
 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot ! 
 
 Thy jasmine and thy window-peeping rose, 
 
 And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
 
 And I shall sigh fond wishes sweet abode ! 
 
 Ah had none greater! and that all liad such !" 
 
 There is a considerable similarity in the works of Coleridge and 
 Wordsworth. They are each impregnated with the spirit of the 
 other. In many respects in a transparency of ornament, purity of 
 conception, matchless ear, and splendour of diction, the poems of 
 Coleridge are often superior to Wordsworth. With the same con- 
 tinual workings of the soul upon its own energies, which is so 
 conspicuous in Wordsworth, he is less abstracted and ideal; not so 
 philosophically sublime, he is more humanely passionate ; not so 
 anatomizing in the operations of the heart and mind, he is more 
 diffused and comprehensive. From the natural bent of his genius, 
 there is a tendency to the strange, the wild, and mysterious; which 
 though intolerable in the cool pursuit of Truth, is yet oftentimes 
 the fruitful particular of the very highest poetry. To this he adds 
 a power of language truly wonderful, more romantically splendid 
 than Wordsworth, and more flexible and melodious than Southey"s. 
 In this particular ihcre are in my opinion, inany specimens of 
 perfect harmony of thought, passion, measure and rhyme, in his 
 poems, which would hartlly yield the palm to the most celebrated 
 passages in Spenser, Shakespeare, or Milton. A fine specimen of 
 his work may be seen in the Ode io /lie Dcparii)io- Year, display- 
 ing that high and bright mysteriousness, so peculiar to him. 
 
 "Sj)irit who s\vecpe';t the wild harp of Time ! 
 It is most hard with an untroubled ear
 
 Coleridge. 879 
 
 Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
 Yet, mine eye fixt on Heaven's unchanging cUnie, 
 Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 
 
 Willi inward stillness, and submitted mind ; 
 
 When lo ! its foUls far waving on the wind, 
 I saw the train of the departing Year I 
 Starting from my silent sadness, 
 Then with no unholy madness, 
 Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclos'd my sight, 
 I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 
 
 Hither, from the recent tomb. 
 From the prison's direr gloom, 
 From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
 And thence, where poverty doth waste and languish ! 
 Or where, his two bright torches blending. 
 
 Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
 Or where o'er cradled infants bending, 
 Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; 
 
 Hither, in perplexed dance. 
 Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
 
 By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
 WMiose indefatigable sweeji 
 liaises its fateful strings from sleep, 
 I bid you haste a mixed tumultuous band ! 
 From every private bower. 
 
 And each domestic hearth. 
 Haste for one solemn hour ; 
 And with a loutl and yet a louder voice, 
 O'er nature struggling in portentous birth, 
 
 Weep and rejoice ! 
 Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth 
 Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 
 
 And now advance in saintly jubilee 
 Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell. 
 They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty I 
 
 I marked Ambition in his war array ! 
 
 I heard the mail'd Monarch's troublous cry 
 'Ah ! wherefore d(^cs the Northern ContpRTcss stay 
 Groans not her chariot on its homeward way? 
 I'lv, mailed Monarch, fly ! 
 Stunned by Heath's twice mortal mace, 
 No mure uw mur<kr's h'.rid fare 
 The iti.sa'.iatc hag shall gloat v, ilh drunken eye ! 
 Manes of the unmunljcicd slain ! 
 \"e that gasped on \^'a^^,aw"s plain ! 
 \'e that er-t at Ismail's lower, 
 W lien l;ui;;aii ruin clinked the slieams. 
 
 Fell in (.^ii.]i;est'> glutted Imur, 
 Mid Women's shrieks and inf nil's sereauis 1
 
 SSO Coleridge 
 
 Spirits"of the uncoffined slain, 
 
 Sudden blasts of triumph swelling 
 Oft, at night, in misty train, 
 
 Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 
 The exterminating fiend is fled 
 
 (Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
 Mighty armies of the dead 
 
 Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb ! 
 Then with prophetic-song relate. 
 Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! " 
 
 Then follows a very fine invocation to all Nature to suspend its 
 
 woes and joys for a season then a vivid description of the war 
 
 incidents for the year : after which comes the Vision imprecating 
 
 in an impassioned style, the vengeance of God upon the tyrannies 
 
 and blood-thirsty persecutions of the Great ones of this earth: 
 
 "Departing year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 
 
 My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
 
 Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, 
 Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore. 
 With many an unimaginable groan 
 
 Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 
 
 Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude, 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shown 
 
 Then, his eye wild ardours glancing. 
 
 From the choired gods advancing, 
 The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet, 
 And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 
 
 Throughout the blissful throng, 
 Hush'd were harp and song ; 
 Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads Seven, 
 (The mystic words of Heaven) 
 Permissive signal make ; 
 The fervent spirit bow'd, then spread his wings and speak ! 
 'Thou in stormy blackness throning, 
 Love and uncreated Light, 
 By the F^arth's unsolaced groaning. 
 Seize thy terrors, Arm of night !' 
 By peace with proffered insult scared, 
 
 Masked hate and envying scorn ! 
 Ly years of havoc yet unborn ! 
 And hunger's bosom to the frost-winds barc'l I 
 But chief by Afric's wrongs. 
 
 Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
 By what deep guilt belongs 
 To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and lies I' 
 By wealth's insensate laugh ! by torture's how 1 ! 
 Avenger, rise I 
 For ever sliall the thankless Island scowl,
 
 Coleridge. 381 
 
 Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ! 
 Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven, O speak aloud ! 
 
 And on the darkling foe 
 Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 
 
 O dart the flash ! O rise and deal t! e blow ! 
 The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! ' 
 
 Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below ! 
 Rise ! God of Nature, Rise. " 
 
 The vision is ended : 
 
 "The voice has ceased, the vision fled ; 
 Yet still I gasp'd and roel'd with dread ; 
 And ever, when the dream of night 
 Renews the phantom to my slight, 
 Cold sweat-clrops gather on my limbs ; 
 
 My ears throb hot, my eye balls start ; 
 My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
 
 Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
 And my thick and struggling breath 
 Imitates the toil of death ! 
 No stranger agony confounds 
 
 The soldier on the war-field spread, 
 When all foredone with toil and wounds, 
 
 Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead! 
 (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled, 
 
 And the night wind-clamours hoarse ! 
 See 1 the starting wretch's head 
 
 Lies pillowed on a l^rother's corse ! ) " 
 
 After tliis a burst of affectionate enthusiasm for his country 
 prevails over his settled conviction of her guilt and impending 
 
 punishment. 
 
 "Not yd enslaved, not wholly vile. 
 O Albion ! O my molhcr Isle ! 
 T!;y valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, 
 (ililter green with sunny showers ; 
 Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 
 
 ]Cch(j to the bleat of llucks ; 
 (Those grassy hills, those glisttcring dolls. 
 
 Proudly ramiiarted with roc'ks) 
 And Ocean mid his uproar \s ild 
 
 S]icaks safely to his islanil-child I 
 
 lience, for many a fearless age, 
 Ibis socinl (^)uicl luvM tliy slimv; 
 
 Nor e\"(.-r ] r"Uil Iri\adi.i""s lage, 
 Or .-.ack'd tli\- touLi-, nr staiu'd th\- fields with gore' 
 
 Then the prophcry of iho tlestrtiction that is to cnsttc : and the 
 
 Ode conclude^ with his nun feelings ;iiid pr.iycrs. 
 
 " Ab.uidoiu'ii lit Ib'.Mcn ? mad Av.iii.-e iliv guide. 
 At cowardly di>tance, yet kindling with jiiidc
 
 382 Coleridge. 
 
 'Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood, 
 And joined the wild yelling of I'amine and Blood ! 
 The nations curse thee ! they with eager wondering 
 
 Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream! 
 
 Strange eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream. 
 Of central fires through nether seas up-thundering 
 
 Soothes her fierce solitude : yet as she lies 
 By livid fount, or red volcanic stieam, 
 
 If ever to Iter lidless dragon eyes, 
 
 O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, 
 The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap. 
 Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. 
 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing 
 And hark ! I hear the famishxl brood of prey 
 Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
 Away, my soul away ! 
 I unpartaking of the evil thing 
 With daily prayer and daily toil, 
 Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
 Have wailed my country with a loud Lament. 
 Now I re-centre my immortal mind 
 
 Tn the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
 Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim 
 God's Image, sister of the Seraphim, " 
 
 There is the same originality of thought, with increased power of 
 expression and versification, in the Ode Fears in Solitude. It 
 is a lofty and energetic satire of a new cast. It is occupied with 
 the censure and reprobation of war, and the vanity of glory, and is 
 animated with so earnest and just a spirit, and such high-toned 
 language and intense benevolence, as to entitle it to a very high 
 place among the poetical productions of this country. It com- 
 mences with a beautiful strain : 
 
 "A green and silent spot, amid the hills; 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
 The hills arc heathy, save that swelling slope, 
 ^^'hich hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
 All golden with the never-bloomlcss furze, 
 Which now blooms most profusely, but the dell, 
 Tathcd by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, 
 When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 
 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
 Which all, nietliinks, \\ ould lo\e ; but chiefly he. 
 The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
 
 Coleridge. 383 
 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 His early manhood more securely wise ! 
 Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, 
 While from the singing-lark (tliat sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best), . 
 And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 Eeligious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, 
 And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark ; 
 That singest like an angel in the clouds 1" 
 
 The manner also in which he embodies atheism in this poem, 
 
 shows a truly original turn of thought. 
 
 " The sweet words 
 Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
 Might stem destruction, where the wisely preached. 
 Arc muttered o'er by men whose tones proclaim 
 How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 
 Rank scofiers some, but most too indolent 
 'J'o deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 
 Oh ! blasphemous I the book of life is made 
 A superstitious instrument, on which 
 We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 
 For all must swear all and in every place. 
 College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
 All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed. 
 Merchant and lawyer, senator and jiriest. 
 The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 
 All, all make up one scheme of perjury, 
 That faith doth reel." 
 
 And the question at ihcend is admirable; uponthesamc .-abject. 
 
 " The very name (jf God 
 Poutids like a juggler's charm ; and, l)old with joy, 
 I''orth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
 (Portentous sight !) the owlet Atheism, 
 Sailing on obscene wings athwart the moon, 
 Drojis his blue-fringed lids, and ImMs tliein close, 
 And hooting at the glorious sun in Jleaven, 
 Cries out, 'Where is it ?'" 
 
 Ilis trcigcdy /\Vw,^/;u' is in point of language unsurpassable. It 
 
 is written in natur.d, free, forciljle l)lai-.k \crsc, c<pial in sonic parts 
 
 to Shal<;es[ieare, and intersjicrscd with a multitude of sublime 
 
 thoughts, which arc evidently traceahln to the (ierman, though still 
 
 only as their cause, not their natural birth-place ; that is to say.
 
 384 Coleridge. 
 
 though he borrowed hints, he did not purloin conceptions ready 
 formed. This play is a poetical study for its powerful thought and 
 poetical expressions. Yet in spite of its very striking features it 
 shows no power of true dramatic creation. It contains fine char- 
 acters, such as Ordonio ; and there is produced a multitude of 
 incidents of the most violent kind, but there is little in it to excite 
 curiosity, or move to any degree of pity. What is the most beautiful 
 in it is the pure descriptions, but it in no sense exhibits the human 
 passions. The following beautiful description is one of the choicest 
 in this tragedy. 
 
 "Yon hanging woods, that touched by autumn seem 
 As tbey were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; 
 The flower-like woods most lovely in decay, 
 The many clouds, the sea, the rocks, the sands, 
 Lie in the silent moonshine ; and the owl, 
 (Strange I very su-angf I) the screocli-owl only wakes! 
 ^'ole voice, s'lle eye of all this world of beauty ! 
 Unless, perhaps, she sings her screeeliing song 
 To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood. 
 
 *\Vhy such a thing am I ! " 
 
 Or the following which is equally admirable in its language and 
 
 conception. 
 
 "On a rude rock 
 A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs, 
 Whose thready leaves to the luw-breathing gale 
 Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean, 
 I stayed, as though the hour of death were passed, 
 And I were sitting in the world of spirits 
 For all things seemed unreal ! There I sate 
 The dews fell clammy, and the night descended, 
 Black, sultry, close I and ere- the midnight hour 
 A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear. 
 That woods and sky, and mountains, seemed one havoc, 
 The second flash of lightning shoM'ed a tree. 
 Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous : 
 My soul worked high, I bared my head to the storm. 
 And with loud voice and clamourous agony 
 Kneeling I prayed to the great spirit that made me, 
 Prayed, that kemokse might fasten on their hearts, 
 And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable 
 As the gored lion's Inlc !" 
 
 The disposition to the mysterious and supernatural is nowhere 
 
 more absolutely developed, or more splendidly arrayed, than in the 
 
 Rime of the Ancient Mariiic7\ It is one of the best known and
 
 Coleridge. 385 
 
 most admired of his poems ; and certainly, in whatever light it is 
 viewed in whatever temper it is read, it must be allowed to be a 
 most singular and astonishing work, both in conception and exe- 
 cution. I have quoted largely already, but I cannot refrain from 
 giving a stanza or two of this wonder of poetry : 
 
 " The Sun now rose upon the right : 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind, 
 But no sweet bird did follow, 
 Nor any day, for food or play, 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 And I had done an hellish thing, 
 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah, wretch ! said they, the i)ird to slay. 
 
 That made the breeze to blow I 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
 
 The fun-ow followed free : 
 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt' down, 
 'Twas sad as sad coulil be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 Tlie bloody Sun, at noon. 
 Eight up al)ove the mast did stand, 
 No I'igger than the Moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after da)', 
 Wc stuck, nor l)iealh nor niuliun, 
 As idle as a i)ainled ^hi[) 
 I'jxm a painted (.)cean. 
 
 Water, water, every where, 
 And all the l)t)ards did ^lirink ; 
 Water, water, every w here 
 Not any drop to diink. 
 
 I y.
 
 386 Coleridge. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
 
 That ever this should be ! 
 
 Yea, slimy things did craw with legs 
 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, al:>out, in reel and rout, 
 
 The death -fires danced at night ; 
 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 
 Burn green, and blue, and white. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so : 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah, well a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 * * * * 
 The moving Moon went up the sky, 
 And nowhere did abide : 
 
 Softly she was going up 
 And a star or two beside, 
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, 
 Like April hoar-frost spread : 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd the water snakes : 
 
 They mov'd in tracks of shining wliite, 
 
 And when they reared, the elfish light, 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 W'ithin the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 They coil'd and swam : and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 O happy living tilings 1 no tongue 
 Their beauty might declare ; 
 A spring of love gushed from my lieart, 
 And I Ijlessed them unaware! 
 
 * * * * 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
 Then darted to the Sun :
 
 Coleridge. 387 
 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the sky-laik sing : 
 Sometimes ail little birds that are, 
 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas all like instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute, 
 And now it is an angel's song. 
 That makes the Heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceas'd, yet still the sails made on 
 A pleasant noise till noon. 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 'J'hat to the sleeping woods all night 
 Singeth a quiet tune. " 
 
 * * *)(* 
 
 The whole of this poem is "a splendid dream, filling the ear with 
 the strange and floating melodies of sleep, and the eye with a shift- 
 ing, vaporous succession of fantastic images, gloomy or radiant," 
 
 Knbla Khati is of the same mystic unreal character ; it is even 
 asserted by Coleridge that this poem was actually composed in a 
 dream. Like all his poems, however, the versification is exquisite. 
 His language puts on every form ; it expresses every sound ; he 
 almost writes to the eye and to the ear. 
 
 "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately plcasure-domp decree ; 
 Where Alpli, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Dowii to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossomed many an inconsc-boaring tree ; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh I that deep romantic eh.'ism which slanted 
 
 Down the green hill athwart a ceclarn cover ! 
 
 A savage place ! as holy and eiiclnnted 
 
 As e'er beneath a wanning moon was haunted 
 
 By W(>man wailing for her demon-lover ! 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. 
 
 As if this eartli in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced :
 
 388 Coleridge. 
 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the threshers flail : 
 And 'mid tbese dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river; 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean ; 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From tlie fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare devise, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw : 
 
 It was an Alyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 
 
 Singing of Mount Aboi-a. 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song, 
 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me. 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 That suimy dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware ! Beware I 
 His flashing eyes, his floating liair ! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice. 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fled, 
 And drank the milk of Paradise. " 
 
 But notwithstanding the striking success and perfect originality 
 of his compositions in this particular, and not forgetting either the 
 energy, the dramatic excellence and splendour of the RemorsCy 
 or the softer and more fanciful elegance of Zapolya, yet it is 
 in his Love Poems that tho genius of Coleridge is poured forth in 
 a more peculiar and undivided stream. As a Love Poet he is 
 strictly and exxlusively original, and this portion of his works have 
 been acknowledged to be excellent, even by those who have affect- 
 ed to despise his other productions. None of the love poetry of 
 the present day, can to my mind be for an instant compared to 
 them in any particular. The love of Byron is desperate and short-
 
 Coleridge, 389 
 
 lived. The love of Moore is something more refined and natural; 
 but still it is so bedecked and beplastered with cumbrous Oriental- 
 isms, that we are never in perfect unison with it. In Wordsworth 
 there is positively nothing to be called love ; he has an intellectual 
 devotion, a deep communion of sentiment, but no love, as that word 
 was understood by Shakespeare and Fletcher. But in Coleridge 
 there is a clear unclouded passion, an exquisite respect, a gentleness, 
 a knightly tenderness, and courtesy, which recalls us in a moment 
 to our old dramatists ; not too sensual as in Byron, nor too intel- 
 lectual, as in Wordsworth. The purity of his feelings is unequalled 
 yet ardent, impatient, and contemplative. It is Petrarch and 
 Shakespeare transfused into each other. It is, if we may be allow- 
 ed so fanciful an illustration, the midsntnmcr inoo7ilight of love 
 foctry. In point of completeness, exquisite hannony of feeling, and 
 unsurpassable grace of imagery and language, Coleridge has left 
 nothing superior to the charming little poem, entitled Love or 
 Geficvtevc. 
 
 "I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
 VVitli downcast eyes and modest grace : 
 For well she knew 1 could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a Inuning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he woo d 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pin'd, and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading; tone, 
 With which I sang another's luvc 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 AVitli downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, tliat 1 ga/.ed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But wliL'n I t(iM tile cruel sc(irn 
 That ciaz'd lliat l)ld and lovely Knij^dit ; 
 And that he cross'd the mountain-woods 
 Kur rested day nor night.
 
 890 Colendge. 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright : 
 And that he knew it was a Friend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did. 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
 And sav'd from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 And hoW' she wept, and clasped his knees 
 And how she tended him in vain 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 That scorn that crazed his brain ; 
 
 And that she nurs'd him in a cave. 
 And how his madness went away, 
 V\'hen on the yellow forest leaves 
 A dying man he lay. 
 
 Ilis dying words but when I reach'd 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 iMy faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve ; 
 The music and the doleful tale 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherish'd long ! 
 
 Slie wept with pity and delight ; 
 She blush'd with love and virgin-shame, 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name, 
 
 Her bosom heaved she stepped aside. 
 As conscious of my look she slept 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclos'd me with her arms, 
 She press'd me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, look'd up, 
 And gaz'd upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
 That I might raiher feel than see 
 Thebeating of her heart."
 
 Lamb. 391 
 
 We will conclude by quoting two of the beautiful Sonnets by this 
 poet. The first, To the River Otter : 
 
 Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 
 
 How many various-fated years have passed, 
 
 What hlissful and what anguished hours, since last 
 I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 
 Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest, 
 Sink tlie sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes 
 I never shut amid the sunny blaze. 
 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise. 
 Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze, 
 
 And bedded sand that veined with various dyes, 
 Gleamed thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze I 
 
 Visions of Childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
 Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs, 
 
 Ah ! that once more I were a careless Child." 
 
 Or the still more beautiful one which follows it : , 
 
 "Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart has bled 
 To see thee, poor old man ! and thy grey hairs 
 Hoar with the snowy blast ; while no one cares 
 To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 
 My Father ! throw away this tattered vest 
 That mocks thy shiv'ring ! take my garment use 
 A young man's I I'll melt these frozen dews 
 That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. 
 My Sara too, shall tend thee, like a child : 
 And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, 
 Of purjilc pride, that scowls on wretchedness. 
 He did not scowl, the Galila.'an mild, 
 
 \A ho met the Lazar turned froni rich man's doors, 
 And called him Friend, and \\c\A u[)on his sores !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 11. 
 
 LAMB. 
 
 Lami!. In classing Charles Lnnib amongst these poetical I^ssays, 
 it must be understood that we do not consider him a great poet. 
 He is not agitated by that fervent imagination, which absorbs the 
 faculties of one possessed by that ''fine frenzy,'" of which Shake- 
 speare speaks : he does not exhibit that profoundness of thought 
 which gives subject for meditation, when the words are well-nigh 
 forgotten ; he possesses little brilliancy of fancy : no romance ; but
 
 392 Lamb. 
 
 he can lay claim in his poetry to a heart-felt tenderness, a domestic 
 freedom, and, once or twice the most perfect excellence in what 
 has been called the curiosa felicitas of language, that can be 
 well conceived. As a critic of the genius of Shakespeare, he may 
 be pronounced first-rate. This does not mean a critic as that term 
 is used now-a-days nothing but dull analysis or verbal pulling to 
 pieces of the suffering subject but a discerning advocate of the 
 esscHtials, and an indicator of the genius of the poets upon whom 
 he has remarked. Yet, as the author of Rosamund Gray, he will 
 make every girl and boy, age, and youth too, sigh and muse : and 
 as the exquisite imitator of that queer ancient master. Burton, he 
 will make you laugh, however so indisposed you may feel. There 
 are many persons who are real lovers of poetry, who cannot endure 
 aught else but what is in their opinions the "highest heaven of 
 invention," absorbed in Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton, they 
 look down upon Fletcher or Collins or Burns, and adoring Byron 
 and Shelley, or Wordsworth, they cannot waste their time or feel- 
 ings upon Lamb, Montgomery or Campbell. And it will not be 
 descrying the rapturous study of the master-spirits of the earth, 
 nor puffing up into an absurd importance the flutterings of the little 
 gregarious birds around the eagle of Heaven ; to say that this is 
 unfair. Read Shakespeare, but why not also read sweet Fletcher. 
 And to the Wordsworthian " Muse on your idol ; but condesend 
 to pluck a flower from the shady vernal garden of the affectionate 
 Charles Lamb." These are exactly the feelings with which we 
 include Lamb amongst our collection of poets. In proof of the 
 beauty of his works, we may quote the following poems, in two 
 very different tones of feeling ; and which contain all the char- 
 acteristics of which we have been speaking. The first is the small 
 poem, Hester 
 
 " When maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place ye may not well supply, 
 Tliough ye among a thousand try, 
 With vain endeavour. 
 
 A month or more hath she been dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led,
 
 Lamb. 393 
 
 To think upon the wormy bed, 
 And her together, 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of pride and joy no common rate, 
 That flush'd her spirit. 
 
 I know notA^y what name beside 
 I shall it call .-if 't was not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied, 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parent held the Quaker rule, 
 ^ Which doth the human feeling cool, 
 But she was trained in Nature's school. 
 Nature had blest her. 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to ]:)ind, 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbour gone before, 
 To that unknown and silent shore. 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 
 Some summer morning. 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a blisS upon the day, 
 A bliss tliat would not go away, 
 A sweet forewarning ?'' 
 
 The other A Famvell to Tol^acco'isof an entirely opposite char- 
 acter. It would not have been quoted fully, had it been possible to 
 have broken it into parts , but it is so perfectly continuous through- 
 out, that such anatomy was impossible. There is scarcely anything 
 so near the flow of V Allegro and II I\'>isi'roso,?iS the lines marked 
 in italics the same fusion of ideas, couched in the same long drawn 
 out melody. 
 
 A I'AREWKI.I, 'lO lODACfO. 
 
 ''May the Babylonish curse 
 Straight confound my slainmeiing verse, 
 If I can a [)assagc si.-c 
 In this word-perplexity, 
 Or a fit exijrcssion fhi<l. 
 Or a language to my mind, 
 (f^lill the phrase is \vi<le or scant) 
 Ti> take leave of ihec GroU PaJiit .' 
 Or in any terms relate 
 Half my love, or half my hale : 
 For I hale, yet I()ve thee so. 
 
 1 Z,
 
 394 Latnb. 
 
 That whichever thing I show, 
 The plain truth will seem to be 
 A constrain'd hyperbole, 
 And the passion to proceed 
 More from a mistress than a weed. 
 
 Sooty retainer to the vine, 
 Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; 
 Sorcerer, that makest us dote upon 
 Thy begrimed complexion, 
 And, for thy pernicious sake. 
 More and greater oath to break 
 Than reclaimed lovers take 
 'Gainst women : thou thy seige dost lay, 
 Much too in the female way, 
 While thou suck'st the labouring breath 
 Faster than kisses or than death. 
 Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, 
 That our worst foes cannot find us, 
 And ill fortune, that it would thwart us, 
 Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 
 While each man, thro' thy heightening steam 
 Does like a smoking Etna seem, 
 And all about us does express 
 (Fancy and wit in richest dress) 
 A Sicilian fruitfulness. 
 Thou through such a mist dost show us. 
 That our best friends do not know us, 
 And, for those allowed features, 
 Due to reasonable creatures, 
 Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, 
 Monsters that, who see us, fear us. 
 Worse than Cerl)erus or Geryon. 
 Or, who first loved a cloiul, Ixion. 
 
 Bacchus we know, and we allow 
 His tipsy rites. But what art thou. 
 That but by reflex canst show 
 What his deity can do. 
 As the false Egyptian spell, 
 Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? 
 Some few vapours thou may'st raise. 
 The weak brain may serve to amaze. 
 But to the reins and nobler heart 
 Canst nor life nor heat impart. 
 
 Brother of Bacchus, later born, 
 The old world was sure forlorn, 
 W'anting thee, that aidest more 
 The god's victories than before 
 All his panthers, and the brawls 
 Of his piping Bacchanals. 
 Tliese, as stale, we disalloxs. 
 Or judge oi thee meant : only thou
 
 Lamb. 395 
 
 His true Indian conquest art : 
 And, for ivy round his dart, 
 Tlie reformed god now weaves 
 A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 
 Scent to match thy rich jierfume 
 Chemic art did ne'er presume 
 Through her quant alenibric strain, 
 None so sovereign to the brain. 
 Nature that did in thee excel. 
 Framed again no second smell. 
 Roses, Violets, but toys 
 For the smaller sort of boys, 
 Or for greener damsels meant ; 
 Thou art the only manly scent. 
 Stinking'st of the stinking kind, 
 Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, 
 Africa, that brags her foyson, 
 Breeds no such prodigious poison, 
 Henbane, nightshade, both together, 
 
 Hemlock, aconite 
 
 Nay, rather. 
 Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; 
 Blisters on the tongue would hurt you, 
 ' Ju as but in a sort I blamed thee, 
 A^one eer prosper d mho defained thee ; 
 Irony all, and feign\i abuse, 
 Such as perplex d loz'ers use. 
 At a need, when in despair, 
 To paint forth their fairest fair. 
 Or in part but to express 
 That exeeedini; comeliness 
 Which their fancies doth so strike 
 They borro^o language of dislike : 
 And, instead of /Nearest Afiss, 
 ye-wel, Honey, Sweetheart. Bliss, 
 And those forms of old admiring, 
 Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 
 Basilisk, and all that's e~'il. 
 Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Di-vil, 
 Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 
 Monkey, Ape, and twenty iore ; 
 Friendly Traitress, loving' Foe, 
 A^ot that she is truly so, 
 But tto other way they kno^^^i 
 A contentment to express. 
 Borders so upon excess. 
 That they do not rightly wot 
 Whether it be pain or not. 
 
 Or, as men, constrain\l to part 
 With what\^ nearest to their heart, 
 While their sorro'ti's at the heig^ht.
 
 396 Lamb. 
 
 Lose discrimination quite. 
 And their hasty -urath let fall. 
 To appease their frafttic .c^all. 
 On the da7 ling thing ivhatever. 
 Whence they feel it death to sever, 
 Though it be, as they, perforce, 
 Guiltless of the sad divorce. 
 
 For I must (nor let it grieve thee, 
 Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee, 
 For thy sake, Tobacco, I 
 Would do anything but die, 
 And but seek to extend my days 
 Long enough to sing thy praise. 
 But, as she, who once hath been, 
 A king's consort is a queen 
 Ever after nor will bate 
 Any title of her state. 
 Though a widow, or divorced. 
 So I, from thy converse forced, 
 The old name and style retain. 
 A right Katherine of Spain ; 
 And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
 Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 
 Where, though I, by sour physician. 
 Am debarr'd the full fruition 
 Of thy favours, I may catch, 
 Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
 Sidelong odours, that give life, 
 Like glances from a neighbour's wife ; 
 And still live in the by-places 
 And the~suburbs of thy graces, 
 And in thy borders take delight, 
 An unconquer'd Canaanite." 
 
 We might quote many other of Lamb's poems of almost equal 
 
 beauty, nor can we refrain at least from giving one or two passages 
 
 from John JVoodvill^.'s a last example of his works. In the passage 
 
 where Simon recounts the things he most loves, and the sports he 
 
 enjoys in the Forest, there is very much to admire. He loves, 
 
 " all things that live, 
 
 From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, 
 
 And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly. 
 
 That makes short holyday in the sunbeam.. 
 
 And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird 
 
 Willi little wings, yet greatly ^enturous 
 
 In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, 
 
 Tliat knows no touch of eloquence. What else? 
 
 Yon tall and elegant stag. 
 
 Who paints a dancing sliadow of his horns 
 
 Li the water, where lie drinks.''
 
 Southey. 397 
 
 And then the beautiful manner in which he is made to express his 
 
 forest enjoyments, is written with great elegance and freedom, 
 
 "To see the sun to bed, and lo arise. 
 
 Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, 
 
 Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, 
 
 With all his fires and travelling jrlories round him : 
 
 Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest 
 
 Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast. 
 
 And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep 
 
 Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep: 
 
 Sometimes outstretch 'd, m very idleness, 
 
 Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, 
 
 To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, 
 
 Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, 
 
 When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, 
 
 Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn ; 
 
 And how the woods berries and worms provide 
 
 W^ithout their pains, when earth has nought beside 
 
 To answer their small wants; 
 
 M'o view the graceful deer come trijiping 
 
 Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, 
 
 Like bashful younkcrs in society : 
 
 To mark the structure of a plant or tree ; 
 
 And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.' 
 
 It may in conclusion, be said of Lamb, that he is not great but 
 
 eminent ; not profound, yet penetrating ; not passionate, yet gentle, 
 
 tender, and sympathising. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 Southey. The poetical genius ofSoutlicy is rather passive than 
 active. He h'^z poiccr^ hwX. \-\v,\ forci'. His personages, like his 
 scenes, have something unreal, phantomlike, and dreamy about 
 them : they are often beautiful, but it is a beauty not of the earth, 
 or even of the clouds, l)ut of the in!ra_i:;c and the Fata Morgana. 
 A writer says,* "His robe of inspiration sits gracefully and majes- 
 tically upon him. but it is too voluminous in its folds, and too 
 heavy in its gorgeous texture, for the motion of real existence : he 
 is never 'succinct for -iced,' and his llowing drapery obstructs and 
 embarasses his steps.'' He is too ecstatic and agonising in his 
 
 Thonws n. Sh.iw, M.A.
 
 398 Southey. 
 
 poetry, The subjects of his poems are frequently commonplace, 
 wrapped in language at once artistic, but extravagant to an excess. 
 These remarks are especially applicable to Thalaba, and The 
 Curse of Kehnma. The subjects of both of these poems are wild, ex- 
 travagant, unearthly, and full of supernatural machinery. But they 
 are also of a kind as difficult to manage with effect as they are at 
 first sight splendid and attractive. And this is a point in which 
 Southey excels. Thalaba is a tale of Arabian enchantment, full 
 of magicians, dragons, and monsters. It is written in an irregular 
 and wandering species of rhythm, altogether without rhyme. Its 
 fault is that there is a painful air of laxity about it, or as some 
 writer has expressed it, "a want of intellectual bone and muscle." 
 There are many passages in it, notwithstanding, of gorgeous 
 description, and many proofs of powerful fancy and imagination, 
 often to an astonishing degree. Take for instance the following 
 beautiful description oi Night, in the opening of Thalaba : 
 
 "How beautiful is night ! 
 
 A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
 
 No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain. 
 
 Breaks the serene of heaven ; 
 
 In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine 
 
 Rolls through the dark blue depths. 
 
 Beneath her steady ray 
 
 The desert-circle spreads, 
 
 Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
 
 How beautiful is night ! 
 
 Who at this untimely horn- 
 Wanders o'er the desert sands ? 
 No station is in view, 
 Nor palm -grove, islanded amid the waste. 
 The mother and her child, 
 The widow'd mother, and the fatherless boy, 
 They at this untimely hour 
 Wander o'er the desert sands." 
 
 Again the elegant description of the pelican in the desert, in the 
 
 Fifth Book : 
 
 "A desert Pelican had built her nest 
 
 In that deep solitude, 
 
 And now, return'd from distant flight, 
 
 Fraught with the river stream, 
 
 Her load of water had disl)urthen'd there. 
 
 Her young in the refreshing bath 
 
 Dipt down their callow heads,
 
 Southey. 399 
 
 Fill'd the swoln membrane from their plumeless throat 
 
 Pendant, and bills yet soft ; 
 
 And buoyant with arch'd breast, 
 
 Plied in unpractised stroke 
 
 The oars of their broad feet. 
 
 They, as the spotted-prowler of the wild 
 
 Laps the cool wave, around the mother crowd, 
 
 And nestle underneath her outspread wings. 
 
 The spotted-prowler of the wild 
 
 Lapt the cool wave, and satiate, from the nest. 
 
 Guiltless of blood, withdrew. 
 
 The mother-bird had moved not, 
 But cowering o'er her nestlings, 
 
 Sate confident and fearless, 
 
 And watch'd the wonted guest. 
 
 But when the human visitant approach'd, 
 
 The alarmed Pelican 
 
 Retiring from that hostile shaj)e 
 
 Gathers her young, and menaces with wings. 
 
 And forward thrusts her threatening neck. 
 
 Its feathers ruffling in her wrath, 
 
 Bold with maternal fear. 
 
 Thalaba drank, and in the water-skin 
 
 Hoarded the precious element. 
 
 Not all he took, but in the large nest left 
 
 Store that sufficed for life ; 
 
 And journeying onward, blest the Carrier Bird, 
 
 And blest, in thankfulness, 
 
 Their common Father, provident for all." 
 
 Or again Stanzas eleven and twelve of the same Book : 
 
 "Through the broken portal, 
 
 Over weedy fragments, 
 
 Thalaba went his way, 
 
 Cautious he trod, and felt 
 
 The dangerous ground before him with his bow. 
 
 The jackal started at his steps ; 
 
 The Stork, alarm'd at sound of man. 
 
 From her broad nest upon the old pillar top, 
 
 AfiVighted fled on llap]Mtig wings ; 
 
 The Adder, in her haunts disturh'd, 
 
 Lanced at the intruding staff her arrowy tongue. 
 
 Twilight and moonsliine dimly mingling gave 
 
 An awcful light obscure, 
 
 Evening not wholly closed. 
 
 The moon still pale and faint : 
 
 An awoful light obscure, 
 
 Broken by many a mass of blackest sha<lc ; 
 
 Long column stretching dark through weeds and moss 
 
 Broad length of lofty wall.
 
 400 SoutheyK 
 
 Whose windows lay in light, 
 And of their former shape, low arch'd or square, 
 Rude outline on the earth 
 Figured, with long grass fringed. " 
 
 And for a still more fanciful and almost weird description, the 
 
 following out of the Sixth Book : 
 
 "Heavy and dark the eve ; 
 
 The moon was hid on high, 
 
 A dim light tinged the mist 
 
 That crost her in the path of Heaven. 
 
 All living sounds had ceased, 
 
 Only the flow of waters near was heard, 
 
 A low and lulling melody, 
 
 Fasting, yet not of want 
 
 Percipient, he on that mysterious steed 
 
 Had reach'd his resting place, 
 
 For expectation kept his nature up, 
 
 Now as the flow of waters near 
 
 Awoke a feverish thirst, 
 
 Led by the sound be moved 
 
 To seek the grateful wave. 
 
 A meteor in the hazy air 
 
 Play'd before bis path ; 
 
 Before him now it roll'd 
 
 A globe of living fire ; 
 
 And now contracted to a steady light. 
 
 As when the solitary hermit prunes 
 
 His lamp's long undulating flame ; 
 
 And now its wavy point 
 
 Up-blazing rose, like a young Cyprus tree 
 
 Sway'd by the heavy wind ; 
 
 Anon to Thalaba it moved. 
 
 And wrapt him in its pale innocuous fire ; 
 
 Now, in the darkness drown'd, 
 
 Left bi]n with eyes bedimm'd. 
 
 And now, emerging, spread tiie scene to sight. 
 
 Led by the sound and meteor-flame 
 
 The Arabian youth advanced. 
 
 Now to the nearest of the many rills 
 
 He stoops ; ascending steam 
 
 Timely repels his band. 
 
 For from its source it sprung, a boiling tide. 
 
 A second course with better hap he tries, 
 
 The wave intensely cold 
 
 Tempts to a copious draught. 
 
 There was a virtue in the wave : 
 
 His limbs, that stiff witli toil 
 
 Di'aggd heavy, from the copious draught received
 
 "(outhey. 401 
 
 Lightness and supple strengtb, 
 
 O'ei'joyed and weening tlie benignant Power, 
 
 Who sent the reinless steed, 
 
 Had blest these healing waters to his use, 
 
 He laid him down to sleep, 
 
 LuU'd by the soothing and incessant sound. 
 
 The flow of many waters, blending oft 
 
 With shriller tones and deep low murnmrings, 
 
 Which from the fountain caves 
 
 In mingled melody 
 
 Like faery music, heard at midnight, came. 
 
 The sounds which last he heard at night 
 
 Awoke his recollection first at morn. 
 
 A scene of wonders lay before his eyes. 
 
 In mazy windings o'er the vale 
 
 A thousand streamlets stray'd, 
 
 And in their endless course 
 
 Had intersected deep the stony soil, 
 
 W'ith labyrinthine channels islanding 
 
 A thousand rocks, which seem'd 
 
 Amid the multitudinous waters there 
 
 Like clouds that freckle o'er tho summer sky, 
 
 The blue ethereal ocean circling each, 
 
 And insulating all. 
 
 Those islets of the living rock 
 
 Were of a thousand shapes, 
 
 And Nature with her various tints. 
 
 Diversified anew their thousand forms; 
 
 For 8t)me were green witli moss, 
 
 Some ruddier tinged, or grey, or silver-white. 
 
 And some witli yellow lichens glow'd like gold, 
 
 Some sparkled sparry radiance to tlie sun. 
 
 Here gush'd the fountains up. 
 
 Alternate liglil and blackness, like tlie play 
 
 Of sunbeams on a warrior's burnish'd arms. 
 
 Yonder the river roH'd, whoso ample bi'^d. 
 
 Their sportive lingerings o'er, 
 
 Received and bore away tho confluent rills. " 
 
 The personages and adventures of this poem are almost super- 
 natural, and this in no limited sense. The same writer whom we 
 before quoted, says, in speaking of the characters in tlus poem, 
 "They arc so completely outcftlic circle of human sympathies, 
 both in their triumphs and sutrciiiigs. and they arc so scrupulously 
 divested of all the passions and circumstances of humanity, that 
 these gorgeous and ambitious works produce on us, the impres- 
 sion of a splendid but unsubstantial nightmare : they are the vast 
 
 a.
 
 402 Soutfiey. 
 
 disjointed visions of fever and delirium." The subject upon which 
 
 Thalaba is constructed is a series of adventures encountered by 
 
 an Arabian hero, who fights with demons and enchanters and 
 
 finally overthrows the dominion of the powers of evil in the 
 
 '' Domdaniel Caverns, '' under the roots of the ocean. It is more 
 
 extravagant in some places even than the " Thousand and One 
 
 Nights. " 
 
 In Kehama, Southey has chosen a still more unmanageable 
 
 groundwork the mythology of the Hindoos a vast structure of 
 
 superstition. The same faults and the same excellencies apply to 
 
 this, as to the former poem. The descriptive portions are equally 
 
 gorgeous in their colouring, and gives proofs of Southey's powerful 
 
 imaginative faculties. Take for example, the following description 
 
 of Evening : 
 
 " Evening conies on ; arising from the stream, 
 
 Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight, 
 
 And whei-e the sails athwart tJie setting beam, 
 
 His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. 
 
 The watchman, at the wish'd apjDroach of night, 
 
 Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day, 
 
 To scare the winged plunderers from their prey, 
 
 With shout and sling, on yonger clay-built height, 
 
 Hath borne tlie suit ry ray. 
 
 Hark ! at the Golden Palaces. 
 
 Tlie Brahmin strikes the hour. 
 
 Foi- leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound 
 
 Rolls though tlie stillness of depai'ting day, 
 
 Like thunder far away. 
 
 Behold them wandering on their hopeless way, 
 
 Unknowing where they stray, 
 
 Yet sure where'er they stop to find no rest. 
 
 The evening gale is blowing. 
 
 It plays among the trees ; 
 
 Like plumes upon a warrior's crest, 
 
 They see yon cocoas tossing to the breeze. 
 
 Ladurlad views them with impatient mind, 
 
 Impatiently he hears 
 
 The gale of evening blowing, 
 
 The sound of waters flowing, 
 
 As if all sights and sounds combined 
 
 To mock his irremediable woe ; 
 
 For not for him the blessed waters flow, 
 
 For not for him the gales of evening blow, 
 
 A fire is in his heart and brain. 
 And Nature hath no healing for his pain.
 
 Southey. 403 
 
 The moon is up still pale, 
 
 Amid the lingering light, 
 
 A cloud ascending in the eastern sky. 
 
 Sails slowly o'er the vale, 
 
 And darkens round and closes in the night. 
 
 No hospitable house is nigh, 
 
 No traveller's home the wanderers to invite; 
 
 Forlorn, and with long watching overworn, 
 
 The wretched father and the wretched child, 
 
 Lie down amid the wild. " 
 
 The following passage may be selected from this poem as one 
 
 of its finest parts. It is written with remarkable force and power 
 
 of language. 
 
 "Deep in the marble rock, the Hall 
 Of Death was hollow'd out, a chamber wide, 
 
 Low roofd, and long ; on either side. 
 
 Each in his own alcove, and on his throne, 
 
 The Kings of old were seated : in his hand 
 
 Each held the sceptre of command, 
 
 From whence, across that scene of endless night, 
 
 A carbuncle diffused its everlasting light. 
 
 So well had the embalmers done their part 
 
 With spice and precious unguents to imbue 
 
 The perfect corpse, that each had still the hue 
 
 Of living man, and every limb was still 
 
 Supple and firm and full, as when of yore 
 
 Its motions answcr'd to the moving will. 
 
 The robes of royally which once they wore, 
 
 Long since had moulder'd off and left them bare : 
 
 Naked upon their thrones ])chold them there, 
 
 Statues of actual llcsh ; . . a fearful sight ; 
 
 Their large and rayless eyes 
 
 Dimly reflecting to that gem-borne light, 
 
 Glaz'd fix'd, and meaningless, . . . yet, open wide, 
 
 Their ghastly balls belied 
 
 The mockjry of life in all beside. 
 
 But if amid these Chambers drear, 
 
 Death were a sight of shutldering and of fear, 
 
 Life was a thing of stranger horror here. 
 
 I""or at the f^itlier end, in yon alcove, 
 
 Where 15aly should have lain, had he ol)ey'd 
 
 Man's connnon lot, behold Ereenia laiil. 
 
 Stiong fetters link bin: to the rock ; his eye 
 
 Xow rolls and widens ; as with effort vain 
 
 lie strives to break the chain. 
 
 Now seems to brood upon his misery. 
 
 Before him couch'd there lay
 
 404 Southey. 
 
 One of the mighty monsters of the deep, 
 
 Whom Lorrinite encountering on the way, 
 
 There station'd, his perpetual guard to keep ; 
 
 In the sport of wanton power, she charm'd him there, 
 
 As if to mock the Glendoveer's despair. 
 
 Upward his form was human, save that here 
 
 The skin was cover'd o'er with scale on scale 
 
 Compact, a panoply of natural mail. 
 
 His mouth, from ear to ear, 
 
 Weapon'd with triple teeth, extended wide, 
 
 And tusks on either side ; 
 
 A double snake below, he roU'd 
 
 His supple length behind in many a sinuous fold. 
 
 With red and kindling eye, the beast beholds 
 
 A living man draw nigh, 
 
 And rising on his folds. 
 
 In hungry joy awaits the expected feast, 
 
 His mouth half-open, and his teeth unsheath'd. 
 
 Then on he sprung, and in his scaly arms 
 
 Seized him, and fasten'd on his neck, to suck, 
 
 With greedy lips the warm life-blood : and sure 
 
 But for the mighty power of magic charms, 
 
 As easily as, in the blithesome hour 
 
 Of spring, a child doth crop the meadow flower. 
 
 Piecemeal those claws 
 
 Had rent their victim and those armed jaws 
 
 Snapt him in twain. Naked Ladurlad stood, 
 
 Yet fearless and unharm'd in this dread strife. 
 
 So well Kehama's Curse had charm'd his fated life. 
 
 He too , . . for anger, rising at the sight 
 
 Of him he sought, in such strange thrall confined, 
 
 With desperate courage fired Ladurlad's mind, . . 
 
 He too unto the fight himself addrest. 
 
 And grappling breast to breast. 
 
 With foot firm planted stands. 
 
 And seiz'd the monster's throat with both his hands, 
 
 Vainly, with throttling grasp, he prest 
 
 The impenetrable scales ; 
 
 And lo ! the Guard rose up, and round his foe. 
 
 With gliding motion, wreath'd his lengthening coils, 
 
 Then tighten'd all their folds with stress and strain. 
 
 Nought would the raging tiger's strength avail 
 
 If once involved within those mighty toils ; 
 
 The armed Rhinoceros, so clasp'd, in vain 
 
 Had trusted to his hide of rugged mail, 
 
 His bones all broken, and the Ijreath of life 
 
 Crush'd from the lungs, in that unequal strife. 
 
 Again, and yet again, he sought to break 
 
 The impassive limlxs ; ])ut when the Monster found
 
 Sotithey. 405 
 
 His utmost power was vain, 
 
 A moment he relax'd in every round, 
 
 Then knit his coils again with closer strain. 
 
 And, bearing forward, forced him to the ground. 
 
 Ereeiiiagroaii'd in anguish at the sight 
 
 Of this dread fight : once more the Glendoveer 
 
 Essay'd to break his bonds, and fear 
 
 For that brave father who had sought him here, 
 
 Stung him to wilder strugglitigs. From the rock 
 
 lie raised himself half-up, with might and main 
 
 Plucked at the adamantine chain. 
 
 And now with long and unrelaxing strain, 
 
 In obstinate effort of indignant strength, 
 
 Labour'd and strove in vain ; 
 
 Till his immortal sinews fail'd at length ; 
 
 And yielding, with an inward groan, to fate. 
 
 Despairingly, he let himself again 
 
 Fall prostrate on his prison-bed of stone. 
 
 Body and chain alike with lifeless weight. 
 
 Struggling they lay in mortal fray 
 All day, while day was in our upper sphere. 
 
 For liglit of day 
 
 And natural darkness nevei- entered hero ; 
 
 All night, with unabated might, 
 
 They waged the unremitting light. 
 
 A second day, a second in'ght. 
 
 With furious will they wrestleil still. 
 
 The third came on, the fourth is gone ; 
 
 Anoth T comes, another goes, 
 
 And yet no respite, no repose ! 
 
 But day and night, and night and day, 
 
 Involv'd in mortal strife they lay ; 
 Six days and nights have pass'tl away. 
 And still they w-age, with mutual rage, 
 
 The unremitting fray. 
 With mutual rage their war liioy wage, 
 
 But not with mutual will ; 
 
 For when the seventh morning came, 
 
 The monster's worn and wearied frame 
 
 In this strange contest fails : 
 
 And weaker, weaker, every hour, 
 
 Ho yields beneath, strong Nature's power, 
 
 I'\)r now the Curse prevails. 
 
 Sometimes the Beast sprung up to bear 
 
 His toe aloft ; and thrusting there 
 
 'i'o sliake him from his hold, 
 
 K.'l.ix'd !he rings that wreath'd him round ; 
 
 But on his throat Ladurlad hung 
 
 And weigli'd him to the ground ;
 
 406 Southey 
 
 And if they sink, or if they float, 
 
 Alike wilh stubborn clasp he clung, 
 
 Tenacious of his grasp ; 
 
 For well he knew with what a power, 
 
 Exempt from Nature's laws, 
 
 The Gurse had arm'd him for this hour ; 
 
 And in the monster's gasping jaws, 
 
 And in his hollow eye, 
 
 Well could Ladurlad now descry 
 
 The certain signs of yictory. 
 
 And now the Beast no more can keep 
 
 His painful watch ; his eyes, opprest, 
 
 Are fainting for their natural sleep ; 
 
 His living flesh and blood must rest, 
 
 The Beast must sleep or die. 
 
 Then he, full faint and languidly, 
 
 Unwreaths his rings and strives to fly. 
 
 And still retreating, slowly trails 
 
 His stiff and heavy length of scales. 
 
 But that unweariable foe, 
 
 With will relentless follows still ; 
 
 No breathing time, no pause of fight 
 
 He gives, but presses on his flight ; 
 
 Along the vaulted chambers, and the ascent 
 
 Up to the emerald-tinted light of day, 
 
 He harnsses his way. 
 
 Till lifeles?, underneath his grasp, 
 
 The huge Sea-Monster lay. 
 
 That obstinate work is done ; Ladurlad cried. 
 
 One labour yet remains 
 
 And thoughtfully he eyed 
 
 Ereenia"s ponderous chains; 
 
 And with fiiint effort, half-despairing, tried 
 
 The rivets deep in-driven. Instinctively. 
 
 As if in search of aid, he look'd around : 
 
 Oh, then how gladly, in the near alcove, 
 
 Fallen on the ground its lifeless Lord beside. 
 
 The crescent scymitar he spied, 
 
 Whose cloudy blade, with potent spells imbued, 
 
 Had lain so many an age unhurt in solitude. 
 
 Joyfully springing there 
 
 He seized the weapon, and with eager stroke 
 
 Hew'd at the chain ; the force was dealt in vain, 
 
 For not as if through yielding air 
 
 Pass'd tlie descending scymitar, 
 
 Its deadend way the heavy water broke ; 
 
 Yet it bit deep. Again, with both his hands 
 
 He wields the blade, and dealt a surer blow.
 
 Sauthey. 407 
 
 The baser metal yields 
 To that fine edge, and lo ! the Glendoveer 
 Rises and snaps the half-sever'd links, and stands 
 Freed from his broken bands. " 
 
 Joan of Arc the earliest of his long poems was a juvenile pro- 
 duction. It is written in blank verse, and exhibits frequently 
 uncommon marks of genius. Its success and the favour it at the 
 time received may bs attributed to the character of the poem, and 
 the republican doctrines which it espoused. Hazlitt says of it, "It 
 is a work, in which the love of liberty is inhaled like the breath of 
 Spring, mild, balmy, and heaven-born that is, full of fears, and 
 virgin-sighs, and yearnings of affection after truth and good, gushing 
 warm and crimsoned from the heart." 
 
 The descriptive parts of this poem are not so rich as many of his 
 
 later works, but there are many passages nevertheless of exceeding 
 
 beauty. The descriptions contained in the passage, where Dunois 
 
 and the Maids rest at evening, is perhaps one of the best. 
 
 "And now, beneath the horizon westering slow 
 Had .sunk the ocb of day : o'er all the vale 
 A purple softness spread, save where tlie tree 
 Its giiint shadow stretch'd, or winding stream 
 Mirror'd tlie light of heaven, still traced distinct 
 When twilight dimly shrouded all beside, 
 A gratel'ul coolness i'reshcn'd the calm air. 
 And the hoarse grasslioj)per their evening song 
 Sung shrill and ceaseless, as the dews of night > 
 
 Descended. On their way the travellers wend, 
 Cheering the road with converse, till far off 
 They mark a cottage taper's glimmering light 
 Gleam through the embower'd gloom ; to that they turn 
 An aged man came foi'th; his thin grey locks 
 Waved on tlie night lireeze, and on his slirunk face, 
 The characters of age were written deep. 
 Them, louting low with rustic courtesy, 
 He welcom'd in ; on tiie white-eniber'd heartli 
 Heapt up fre^h fuel ; then, with frieiidlv care, 
 Spread out the hdmely board, and till'tl the bowl 
 \\'itli the red produce of the vine that ai-ched 
 His evening seat ; llicy iif the plain npast 
 Pui-took, and (juairii the pure and iiUasant bowl." 
 
 The passage selected as the best example of the beauties of 
 this poem, is the Maiden's story in the First Book. It is elegantly 
 written and expressed.
 
 408 Southey 
 
 "Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yon forest skirts 
 The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows 
 As on the fai'ther bank the distant towers 
 Of Vaucotileur ? there in the hamlet Arc 
 My father's dwelling stands ; a lowly hut, 
 Yet nought of needful comfort wanted it, 
 For in Lorraine there lived no kinder lord 
 Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jacques, 
 In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man 
 Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart 
 Affection had no root. I never knew 
 A parent's love ; for harsh my mother was. 
 And deem'd the cares that infancy demands 
 Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were, 
 And would have made me fear them, but my soul 
 Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude, 
 And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke 
 And wrathful chastisement. Yet was the voice 
 That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet 
 To my young heart ; now have I felt it leap 
 With transport, when mine luicle Claude approach'd ! 
 For ho would place me on his knee, and tell 
 The wondrous tales that childhood loves to hear, 
 Listening with enger eyes and open lips 
 In most devout attention. Good old man ! 
 Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven 
 Unhallowed by the grateful thought of him, 
 Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it ! 
 He was a parent to ibc, and his home 
 Was mine, when, in advancing years, I found 
 No peace, no comfort, in my father's house. 
 With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours, 
 By day I drove my father's flock afield 
 And this was happiness. 
 
 Amid these wilds 
 Often to summer pasture have I driven 
 The flock, and well I know these mountains wilds. 
 And evei'y bosom'd vale, and valley stream 
 Is dear to memory, I have laid me down 
 Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent 
 Scarce sends the sound of vraters now^, and watch d 
 The tide roll glittering to the noon-tide sun. 
 And listened to its ceaseless miu-muring, 
 For all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul, 
 Fiird with a strange and undefined delight 
 That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds 
 Over llie lake at eve : their ilccting hues 
 The traveller cannot trace witli men\ory's eye. 
 Yet he i-emembers well how fair they were, 
 How very lovely.
 
 Smthey. 409 
 
 Here in solitude 
 My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes 
 Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was, 
 As the white mists of morning roU'd away, 
 To see the mountain's wooded heights appear 
 Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slopes 
 Rich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun 
 On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light. 
 Pleasant at noon, beside the vocal brook 
 To lie me down, and watch tlie floating clouds, 
 And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes 
 Tlieir ever-varying forms ; and oh how sweet. 
 To drive my fluck at evening to the fold. 
 And histen to our little liut, and hear 
 The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. 
 
 'Amid the village playmates of my youth 
 Was one whom riper years approved my friend ; 
 A very gentle maid was Madclon. 
 I loved \\iiv as a sister, and a long time 
 Her undivided tenderness possess'd, 
 "i'lll that a belter and a holier tie 
 Gave her one nearer friend, and tlien my heart 
 Partook lier ]ia]ipincss, foi- never lived 
 A happier pair than Arnaud and liis wife. 
 'Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth 
 Went Arnaud to tiie war. The morn was fair, 
 Briglit shone the sun, tlie birds sung cheerily. 
 And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring ; 
 But to Domremi wretched was that day. 
 For tljcre was lamentation, and tlie voice 
 Of anguisli, and the deeper agony 
 
 That spake not. Never will my heart forged 
 
 'i'lie feelings that sliot tlirongii mo, when the sound 
 Of elieerful music burst upon our ears 
 Sudilen, and from the arms that round their necks 
 Hung close entwined, as in a last embrace, 
 Friends, brethren, husl):ind's wout. 
 
 More fretpicnt now 
 iSouglit I the converse of poor Madeion, 
 Vn\- much she needed now the soothing voice 
 Of friendship. Heavily the sumnirr pass'd. 
 To \\v\- a joyless one, expecting still 
 Soini' li<lint,'s from the war ; and as at eve 
 She with h<n- mother by tiie cottage door 
 Sat in the sunsliiiie, 1 have seen her eve, 
 If one iiijii'arcd alont; iIk^ distant path, 
 Simpi' to tho I'oi-nt slu' loved, ins lineaments. 
 Her cbcrk I'aint Ibish'd by hope, that made her heart 
 Sci'ni a- it sunk within hci-. So the days 
 And \voeks and inonlhs pass'd on. and wiion the leaves
 
 410 Southey . 
 
 Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope 
 That reason own'd not, that with expectation 
 Did never cheer her as she rose at morn, 
 Still lingered in her heart, and still at night 
 Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came, 
 But Arnaud never from the war return'd, 
 He far away had perish'd, and when late 
 The tidings of his certain death arriv'd, 
 Sore with long anguish underneath that blow' 
 She sunk. .Then would she sit and think all day 
 Upon the past, and talk of happiness 
 That never would return, as tho' she found 
 Best solace in the thoughts that minister'd 
 To sorrow : and she loved to see the sim 
 Go doAvn, because another day was gone, 
 And then she might retire to solitude 
 And wakeful recollections, or perchance 
 To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness, 
 For in the visions of her heart she saw 
 Her husband, saw him as escaped tlie war, 
 To his own home return'd. Thus day nor night 
 Reposed she, and she pined and pined away. 
 'Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest, 
 
 Death ! and grievous in the hour of joy 
 
 The' thought of thy cold dwelling ; but thou comest 
 Most welcome to the wretched ; a best friend 
 To him that wanteth one ; a comforter, 
 For in the grave is peace. By the bed-side 
 Of Madelon I sat : when sure she felt 
 The hour of her deliverance drawing near, 
 
 1 saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, 
 I had her latest look of earthly hope, 
 
 I felt her hand's last pressure. Sou of Orleans ! 
 I would not wish to live to know that hour, 
 When I could think upon a dear friend dead, 
 And weep not. 
 
 I remembei", as her corse 
 Went to the grave, there was a lark sprung up, 
 And soaring in the sunshine, caroll'd loud 
 A .joyful song ; and in mine heart I thought. 
 That of the m.ultitude of beings, man 
 Alone was wretched. 
 
 Then my soid awoke. 
 For it had slumber'd long in happiness, 
 And never feeling misery, never thought 
 What others suffer. I, as best I might, 
 Solaced the keen regret of Elinor ; 
 And nnich my cares avail'd, and much her son's. 
 On whom, tlio oidy comlbrt of her age. 
 She centred now her love. A vounger birth.
 
 Southey. 411 
 
 Aged nearly as myself was Theodore, 
 
 An ardent youtb, who with the kindest cares 
 
 Had south'd liis sister's sorrow : We bad knelt 
 
 By her death-bed together, and no bond 
 
 In closer union knits two human hearts 
 
 Than fellowship in grief. 
 
 It cbanc'd as once 
 Beside the fire of Elinor I sat, 
 The night was comfortless ; the loud blast howl'd ; 
 And as we drew around the social hearth, 
 We heard the rain beat hard ; driven by the storm 
 A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light. 
 We heapt the fire : the friendly board was spread : 
 The bowl of hospitality went round. 
 'The storm beats hard,' the stranger cried ; 'safe hous'd,' 
 Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain. 
 I too were well content to dwell in peace, 
 Resting my head upon tiie lap of Love, 
 But that my country calls. When the winds roar, 
 Remember sometimes what a soldier sufiers, 
 A.nd think of Conrade ! 
 
 Theodore replied, 
 'Success go with thee ! Something I have known 
 Of war, and of its dreadful ravages ; 
 My soul was sick at such ferocity : 
 And 1 am well content to dwell in peace, 
 Albeit higlorious, thanking that good God 
 W^ho made mo to be happy ! 
 
 Did that God,' 
 Cried Conrade, 'forni thy heart for happiness. 
 When Desolation royally careers 
 Over thy wretched country ? Did that God 
 From thee for peace when Slaughter is abroad. 
 When her bi-ook.s run with blood, and Rape and Murder 
 Stalk thro' her flaming towns? Live thcni in peace, 
 Young man ! my heart is liunuin : I do feel 
 For what my brethren suffer.' 
 
 As lie ^pake, 
 Such mingled passions charactered his face 
 Of iierco and terrible benevolence. 
 That I did tremble as I listcu'd to him. 
 Then in mine heart tunuiltuous thoughts arose 
 Of liigii achievements, indistinct, and wild, 
 And vast, yet such tiiry were as iiiiide me pant 
 As tliough by some divinity ))i)3ses>'d. 
 'But is there iiul some duty du.' to those 
 We love?" said Theodore ; and as he s])ake 
 His warm cheek criniMiu'd. Is it not most right 
 To cheer the eviMiiug of declining ;ige, 
 Witii filial tenderness repaying thus 
 Parental care ? '
 
 412 Southey. 
 
 'Hard it is,' Conrade cried, 
 'Ay, vei'y hard, to part from those we love ; 
 And I have suffer'd that severest pang, 
 I have left an aged mother, I have left 
 One, upon whom my heart has centred all 
 Its dearest, best affections. Should I live 
 Till Fi-ance shall see the blessed liour of Peace, 
 I shall return : iny heart will be content, 
 My highest duties will be well discharg'd, 
 And I may dare be happy. There are those 
 Who deem these thoughts wild fancies of a mind 
 Strict beyond measure, and were well content, 
 If I should soften down my rigid nature 
 Even to inglorious ease, to honour me. 
 But pure of heart and high of sell'-esteem 
 I must be honoured by myself: all else. 
 The breatla of Fame, is as the unsteady mind, 
 Worthless.' 
 
 So saying, from his belt he took 
 The encmnbering sword, I held it, listening to him 
 And, wistless what I did, half from the sheath 
 Drew the well -tempered blade. I gazed upon it, 
 And shuddering as I felt its edge, exclaim'd, 
 'It is most horrible with the keen sword 
 To gore the linely-fibred human iVame ! 
 I could not strike a lamb.' 
 
 He answer'd me, 
 'Maiden, thou hast said well. I could not strike 
 A lamb. But when the invader's savage fury 
 Spares not grey age, and mocks tlie infant's shriek 
 As he does writhe upon his cursed lance, 
 And forces to his foul embrace the wife 
 Even on her murder'd husband's gasping corse ! 
 Ahnighty God ! I should not be a man 
 It I did not let one weak and pitiful feeling 
 Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. 
 Think well of this, young man !' he cried, and seiz'd 
 The hand of Theodore; 'think well of this, 
 As you are human, as you liope to live 
 In peace, amid the dearest joys of liome ; 
 Think well of tliis ! You have a tender mother ; 
 As you do wish tliat slie may die in peace. 
 As you would even to madness to agonize 
 To keai- this nuiiden call on you in vain 
 For aid, and see her dragg'd, and lieai- lier scream 
 In the blood-i"cekiiig soldioi-'s lustful ai'in:^ 
 Think that tlicj-e ai-e such jiorrors ; that even now, 
 Some city flames, and ]ia])ly as in Koan, 
 Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast 
 Yet hangs for food ; Oh God ! I would not lose
 
 Southey. 413 
 
 These horrible feelings tho' thej rend my heart. 
 
 When we had all betaken us to rest, 
 Sleepless T lap, and in my mind revolv'd 
 The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon 
 Rose in remembrance ; o'er her the grave 
 Had closed ; her sorrows were not register'd 
 In the rolls of Fame : but when the tears run down 
 The widow's cheek, shall not her cry bo heard 
 In Heaven against the oppressor? will not God 
 In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break 
 The sceptre of the wicked ? Thoughts like these 
 Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day 
 I slept, nor then reposed my heated brain. 
 For visions rose, sent as I do believe 
 From the Most High. I saw a high tower'd town 
 Hemmed in around, with enemies begirt, 
 Where Famine, on a heap of carcases, 
 Half envious of the unutterable feast, 
 Mork'd the gorg'd raven clog his beak with gore. 
 I turn'd me then to the bcseiger's camp, 
 And tliere was revelry : tho loud lewd laugh 
 Burst on my ears, and I behold tiie chiefs 
 Even at their feast plan the device of death. 
 My soul grew sick within me : then methought 
 From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests, 
 A giant arm burst forth, and dropt a sword 
 Tiiat pierced like lightning thro' the midnight air, 
 Tiien was there heard a voice, which in mine ear 
 Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy 
 When the pale foe shall wither in my rage. 
 
 From that night I could feel my burthen'd soul 
 Heaving beneath incumbent Deitj^ 
 I sat in silence, n^using on tho days 
 To come, unheading and unseeing all 
 Around me, in that dreaminess of soul 
 When every bodily sense is as it slept, 
 And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard 
 Strange voices in the evening; wind : sfranrro forms 
 Dimly discovered throng'd the twilight air 
 They wandered at me who had known me once 
 A cheerful, careless damsel. I have seen 
 Mine uncle gaze upon mo wistfully, 
 A ho;iviiiess upon his aged brow; 
 And in his eye such meanins;, that my heart 
 Somelinjos misgave me. I had told him all 
 The nii;j;hty future laiiouriuLr in my breast, 
 But that metiiou^fht the hour was not yet come. 
 At l(Mi;j;(li I hoard of Oi'loans. hy the foe 
 ^\'al^(l in from human succour ; to the event 
 All look'd with fear, lor there the lute of France
 
 414 Southey, 
 
 Hung in the balance, Now my troubled soul 
 
 Grew more disturb'd, and shunning every eye, 
 
 I loved to wander where the forest shade 
 
 Frown'd deepest ; there on mightiest deeds to brood 
 
 Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart 
 
 Throb loud : anon I paused, and in a state 
 
 Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind. 
 
 There is a fountain in the forest, call'd 
 
 The fountain of the Fairies : when a child, 
 
 With most delightful wonder I have heard 
 
 Tales of the Elfin tribe that on its bank 
 
 Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak, 
 
 The goodliest of the forest, grows beside ; 
 
 Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat. 
 
 By the woods bounded like some little isle. 
 
 It ever hath been deem'd their favourite tree ; 
 
 They love to lie and rock upon its leaves, 
 
 And bask them in the moonshine. Many a time 
 
 Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round 
 
 On the green-sward beneath its boughs, bewrays 
 
 Their nightly dance, and bade him spare the tree. 
 
 Fancy had cast a spell upon the place 
 
 And made it holy ; and the villagers 
 
 Would say that never evil thing approached 
 
 Unpunish'd tliere. The strange and fearful pleasure 
 
 Thai fill'd me by that solitary spring, 
 
 Ceas'd not in riper years ; and now it woke 
 
 Deeper delight, and mere mysterious awe. 
 
 Lonely the forest spring ; a rocky hill 
 Rises beside it, and an aged yew 
 Burst from the rifted crag that overbrows 
 The waters ; cavern'd there, unseen and slow 
 And silently they well. The adder's tongue, 
 Rich with the wrinkles of its glossy glen. 
 Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip 
 Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods 
 Bosom the quiet beauties of the place, 
 Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds 
 As Silence loves to hear, the passing wind, 
 Or the low murmuring of the scarce-heard stream. 
 A blessed spot ! oh, how my soul enjoy'd 
 Its quietness, with what delight. 
 Escaping humankind, I hastened there 
 To solitude and freedom ! Thitherward 
 On a spring eve I had betaken me. 
 And there I sat, and niavk'd the deep red clouds 
 Gather before the wind, the rising wiTid, 
 Whoso sudden gusts, each wilder than the last, 
 Secm'd as they rock'd my senses. Soon the night 
 Darken'd around, and the large rain drops loll
 
 Southey. 415 
 
 Heavy; anon with tempest rage the storm 
 Howrci o'er the wood. Methoiight tlie heavy rain 
 Fell with a grateful coolness on my head, 
 And the hoarse dasli of waters, and (ho rush 
 Of winds that mingled with the forest roar, 
 Made a wild inusie. On a rock I sat, 
 The glory of tlie tempest fiU'd my soul. 
 And wlifn tlie thunders peal'd, and the long flash 
 ITung durable in heaven, and to mine eye 
 S|5read the grey forest, all remembrance left 
 My mind, annihilated was every thought, 
 A most full quielness of straTige delight ; 
 Suspended all my powers ; I seem'd as though 
 Diffused into the scene. 
 
 At length a light 
 Approach'd the spring ; I saw my uncle Claude ; 
 His grey locks dripping with the midnight storm 
 He came, and caught me in liis arms, and cried, 
 'My God ! my cliild is safe !' 
 
 I felt his words 
 Pierce in my heart ; my soul was overcharged ; 
 I fell upon his neck and told him all ; 
 God was within me ; as I folt I sjjake. 
 And he believed. 
 
 Ay, Chieftain, and the world 
 Shall soon believe my mission ; for the Lord 
 Will raise up indignation, and pour out 
 His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress. " 
 
 The next poem in point of consequence is the Vtsioti of Judg- 
 ment, rendered interesting by the fact that in this poem Southey 
 essayed to revive the hexameter in English verse. This experiment . 
 tried in so many languages, and with such indifferent success, had 
 been attempted by Gabriel Harvey in the reign of Elizabeth, from 
 which the following lines, from his Translation of Virgil are quoted 
 as an example. 
 
 "With tentivc listening eacli wight was settled in liarkning ; 
 Then father /Eneas chronicled fmni lofiie bed haulie : 
 You bid me, O jirinccss, to scnrifie a festered f)l(l sore. 
 How that tlie Trojans were [ircsl by the (jrocian armie. " 
 
 The universal'ridiculc which hailed Soulhey's attempt was excited 
 
 quite asjmuch by the absurdity of the metre as by the exti-avagant 
 
 flattery of the \w--\\\ it-clf. The deification, or rather beatification, 
 
 of George III, drew from Hyron some of the severest strokes of his 
 
 irresistible ridicule, and gave him the opportunity of severely re-
 
 416 Southey. 
 
 venging upon Southey some of the attacks upor. his principles and 
 poetry. The Vision of yitdgment, was one of the odes, written 
 upon his being appointed poet-laureate. 
 
 In Southey's early days, he was a sceptic and a republican, but 
 became afterwards a firm believer in Christianity, and in his poet- 
 laureate odes he exhibits a fierce, passionate, controversial hatred 
 of his former liberal opinions which gives interest even to the am- 
 bitious monotony, the convulsive mediocrity of his official lyrics. 
 And in this the Vision of Judgment stands very prominent. 
 
 Roderick, the Last of the Got/is is a poem in blank verse, and 
 very much superior to many other of Southey's poems. The ago- 
 nizing repentance of the Gothic King for his past crimes, and his 
 humble trust in the mercy of God, form the prevailing tone of the 
 work. He figures in most of the scenes in the disguise of a hermit, 
 in which many of his powerful exclamations are written with zeal, 
 tenderness, and pathos. For instance the following passage : 
 
 ' ' Lo ! the western sun 
 
 Flames o'er the broad Atlantic ; on the verge 
 Of glowing ocean rests ; retiring tlien 
 Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night 
 Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent 
 Knelt by Romano's grave, and falling prone, 
 Clasp'd with extended arms the funeral mould. 
 Father ! he cried, Companion ! only friend, 
 When all beside was lost ! thou too art gone, 
 And the poor sinner whom from utter death 
 Thy providential hand preserved, once more 
 Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak 
 For solitude, . . too vile a wretch to bear 
 This everlasting commune with myself 
 The Tempter hath assail'd me ; my own heart 
 Is leagued with him ; Despair hath laid the nets 
 To take my soul, and Memory like a ghost, 
 Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint, 
 While I was blest with thee, the hermitage 
 Was my sure haven ! Look upon me still. 
 For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see 
 The suppliant ; look upon thy child in Christ. 
 Is there no other way for penitence ? 
 I ask not martyrdom ; for what am I 
 That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed 
 Of a long life of holy works like thine; 
 Or how should I presumptuously aspire
 
 Southey. 417 
 
 To wear the heavenly crown resign'd by thee, 
 For my poor sinful sake ? Oh point me thou, 
 Some humblest, painfullest, severest path. 
 Some new austerity, unheard of yet 
 In Syrian fields of glory, or the sand 
 Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow 
 With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem, 
 Tracking the way with blood ; there day by day 
 Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge, 
 Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed 
 Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross, 
 A nightly crucifixion ! . . any thing 
 Of action, difficulty, bodily pain, 
 Labour, and outward suffering, . . any thing 
 But stillness and this dread solitude ! 
 Romano ! Father ! let me hear thy voice 
 In dreams, O sainted Soul ! or from the grave 
 Speak to thy penitent ; even from the grave 
 Thine were a voice of comfort. " 
 
 There is none of the supernatural machinery employed in this 
 poem as in many other of his works, yet there is the same want of 
 reality and human interest. There are many descriptions, not- 
 withstanding, of undeniable merit. For example : 
 
 "How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky 
 The midnight Moon ascends ! Her placid beams 
 Through thinly scatter'd leaves and boughs grotesque, 
 Mottle with mazy shads the orchard slope ; 
 Here, o'er the chestnuts fretted foliage grey 
 And massy, motionless they spread ; here shine 
 Upon the crags, deepening with l)lackcr night 
 Their chasms ; and there the glittering argentry 
 Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. 
 A lovelier, purer light than that of day 
 Rests on the hills ; and oh how awefully 
 Into that deep and tranquil firmament 
 The summits of Auscva rise serene ! 
 The watchman on the battlements partakes 
 The stillness of the solemn hour ; he feels 
 The silence of the earth, llie endless sound 
 Of flowing waler soothes him, and the stars, 
 Which in that brightest moon-light wcil-nigh quench'd 
 Scarce visible, as in the utmost deptii 
 Of yonder sapphire infinite, arc seen. 
 Draw on with elevating influence 
 Toward eternity the attemper'd mind. 
 Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands. 
 And to the \'irgin Mother silently 
 Perfers her hymns of praise. " 
 
 C.
 
 418 Southey. 
 
 Or the following, which is equally beautiful : 
 
 "Meantime Pelayo up the vale pursued 
 Eastward his way, before the sun had climb'd 
 Auseva's brow, or shed his silvering beams 
 Upon Europa's summit, where the snows 
 Through all revolving seasons hold their seat. 
 A happy man he went, his heart at rest, 
 Of hope and virtue and affection full. 
 To all exhilarating influences 
 Of earth and heaven alive. With kindred joy 
 He heard the lark, who from her airy height, 
 On twinkling pinions poised, pour'd forth profuse, 
 In thrilling sequence of exuberant song. 
 As one whose joyous nature overflow'd 
 With life and power, her rich and rapturous strain. 
 The early bee, buzzing along the way. 
 From flower to flower, bore gladness on its wing 
 To his rejoicing sense ; and he pursued. 
 With quicken'd eye alert, the frolic hare, 
 Where from the green herb in her wanton path 
 She brush'd away the dews. For he long time. 
 Far from his home and from his native hills. 
 Had dwelt in bondage ; and the mountain breeze, 
 Which he had with the breath of infancy 
 Inhaled, such impulse to his heart restored, 
 As if the seasons had roll'd back, and life 
 Enjoy'd a second spring. 
 
 * * * * 
 A mountain rivulet. 
 
 Now calm and lovely in its summer course. 
 Held by those huts its everlasting way 
 Towards Pionia. They whose flocks and herds 
 Drink of its water call it Deva. Here 
 Pelayo southward up the ruder vale 
 Traced it, his guide unerring. Amid heaps 
 Of mountain wreck, on either side thrown high, 
 The wide-spread traces of its wintry might, 
 The tortuous channel wound ; o'er beds of sand 
 Here silently it flows ; here from the rock 
 Rebutted, curls and eddies ; plunges here 
 Precipitate ; here roaring among crags, 
 It leaps and foams and whirls and hurries on. 
 Grey alders here and bushy hazels hid 
 The mossy side ; their wreath'd and knotted feet 
 Bared by the current, now against its force 
 Repaying the support they found, upheld 
 The bank secure. Here, bending to the stream. 
 The birch fantastic stretch'd its rugged trunk. 
 Tall and erect from whence, as from their base. 
 Each like a tree, in silver branches grew.
 
 Southey. 419 
 
 The cherry here hung for the birds of heaven 
 
 Its rosy fruit on high. The elder there 
 
 Its parple berries o'er the water bent, 
 
 Heavily hanging. Here, amid the brook, 
 
 Grey as the stone to which it clung, half root, 
 
 Half trunk, the young ash rises from the rock ; 
 
 And there its parent lifts a lofty head, 
 
 And spreads the graceful boughs ; the passing wind 
 
 With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves, 
 
 And shakes its rattling tufts." 
 
 In his Metrical Tales, Southey exhibits a degree of vigour and 
 
 originality of thought, for which we look in vain in his longer works. 
 
 Besides this, there is a real exhibition of feeling, which we rarely 
 
 meet with in his other works. The Cross Roads is an excellent 
 
 example : 
 
 "There was an old man breaking stones 
 
 To mend the turnpike way ; 
 He sate him down beside a brook 
 And out his bread and cheese he took, 
 
 For now it was mid-day. 
 
 He leant his back against a post, 
 
 His feet the brook ran by ; 
 And there were water-cresses growing. 
 And pleasant was the waters flowing, 
 
 For he was hot and dry. 
 
 A soldier with his knapsack on, 
 
 Came travelling o'er the down ; 
 The sun was strong and he was tired ; 
 And he of the old man inquired 
 
 How far to Bristol town. 
 
 Half an hour's walk for a young man, 
 
 Hy lanes and fields and stiles ; 
 But you the foot-path do not know, 
 And if along the road you go, 
 
 Why then 'tis three good miles. 
 
 The soldier took his knapsack off, 
 
 For lie was hot and dry ; 
 And out his bread and cheese he took, 
 And he sat down besiile the brook 
 
 To (line in com[)any. 
 
 Old friend I in faith, the siildier says, 
 
 I envy you almost ; 
 My shoulders have been sorely prest 
 And I shouKl like to sit and rest 
 
 My back against that post.
 
 420 Southey. 
 
 In such a sweltering day as this, 
 
 A knapsack is the devil ! 
 And if on t'other side I sat, 
 It would not only spoil our chat, 
 
 But make me seem uncivil. 
 
 The old man laugh'd and moved I wish 
 
 It were a great arm'd chair ! 
 But this may help a man at need ! 
 And yet it was a cursed deed 
 
 That ever brought it there. 
 
 There's a poor girl lies buried here 
 
 Beneath this very place. 
 The earth upon her corpse is prest, 
 The stake is driven into her breast, 
 
 And a stone is on her face. 
 
 The soldier had but just leant back. 
 
 And now he half rose up. 
 There's sure no harm in dining here, 
 My friend ? and yet to be sincere 
 
 I should not like to sup. 
 
 God rest her ! she is still enough 
 
 Who sleeps beneath my feet ! 
 The old man cried. No harm I trow 
 She ever did herself, though now 
 
 She lies where four roads meet. 
 
 I have passed by about that hour 
 When men are not most brave ; 
 It did not make my heart to fail, 
 And I have heard the nightingale 
 Sing sweetly on her grave. 
 
 I have past by about that hour 
 
 When ghosts their freedom have ; 
 But there was nothing here to fright, 
 And 1 have seen the glow-worm's light 
 Shine on the poor girl's grave. 
 
 There's one who like a Christian lies 
 
 Beneath the church-tree's shade ; 
 I'd rather go a long mile round 
 Than pass at evening through the ground 
 Wherein that man is laid. 
 
 There's one who in the churchyard lies 
 
 For whom the bell did toll ; 
 He lies in consecrated ground. 
 But for all the wealth in Bristol town 
 
 I would not be with his soul ! 
 Didst see a house below the hill. 
 
 Which the winds and the rains destroy? 
 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell,
 
 Southey. 421 
 
 And I remember it full well 
 When I was a growing boy. 
 
 And she was a poor parish girl 
 
 Who came up from the west ; 
 From service hard she ran away, 
 And at that house in evil day, 
 
 Was taken in to rest. 
 
 The man he was a wicked man, 
 
 And an evil life he led ; 
 Rage made his cheek grow deadly white, 
 And his gray eyes were large and light, 
 
 And in anger they grew red. 
 
 The man was bad, the mother worse, 
 
 Bad fruits of a bad stem ; 
 'Twould make your hair to stand on end 
 If I should tell to you, my friend, 
 
 The things that were told of them ! 
 
 Didst see an out-house, standing by? 
 
 The walls alone remain ; 
 It was a stable then, but now 
 Its mossy roof has fallen through 
 
 All rotted by the rain. 
 
 The poor girl she had served with them 
 
 Some half a year or more. 
 When she was found hung up one day 
 Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay 
 
 Behind that stable door ! 
 
 It is a wild and lonesome place, 
 
 No hut or house is near, 
 Should one meet a murderer there alone, 
 'Twerc vain to scream, and the dying gn^an 
 
 Would never reach mortal car. 
 
 And there were strange reports about ; 
 
 But still the coroner found 
 That she by her own hand had died. 
 And should buried be Ijy the way side. 
 
 And not in Christian ground. 
 
 This was the very place he chose, 
 
 Just where these four roads met, 
 
 And I was one among the throng 
 
 That hither followed tlieni along, 
 
 I shall never the sight fjrget ! 
 
 They carried her upon a board, 
 
 In the clothes in which she died ; 
 I saw the cap blow off her heat!, 
 Her face was of a dark, dark red, 
 Her eyes were starting wide.
 
 422 Southey. 
 
 I think they could not have been closed 
 
 So widely did they strain. 
 I never saw so dreadful a sight, 
 And it often made me wake at night, 
 
 -For I saw her face again. 
 
 They laid her here where four roads meet, 
 
 Beneath this very place. 
 The earth upon her corpse was prest, 
 This post is driven into her breast 
 
 And a stone is on her face. " 
 
 Also some of his legends, translated from the Spanish and Por- 
 tugese, or from the obscurer stores of the Latin chronicles of the 
 Middle Ages, or the monkish legends of the saints, are very vigor- 
 ous and characteristically written. The tale of The Lover's Rock 
 is an interesting specimen. 
 
 "The maiden through the favouring night 
 P'rom Granada took her flight, 
 She bade her father's house farewell. 
 And fled away with Manuel. 
 
 No Moorish maid might hope to vie 
 With Laila's cheek or Laila's eye. 
 No maiden loved with purer truth, 
 Or ever loved a lovlier youth. 
 
 In fear they fled across the plain. 
 The father's wrath, the captive's chain. 
 In hope to Seville on they flee. 
 To peace, and love, and liberty. 
 
 Chiuma they have left, and now. 
 Beneath a precipice's brow. 
 Where Guadalhorce winds its way. 
 There in the shade awhile they lay ; 
 
 For now the sun was near its height, 
 And she was weary witli her flight ; 
 She laid her head on Manuel's breast, 
 And pleasant was the maiden's rest. 
 
 While thus the lovely Laila sle]Dt, 
 A fearful watch young Manuel kept, 
 Alas ! her father and his train, 
 He sees come speeding o'er the plain. 
 
 The maiden started from her sleep, 
 They sought for refuge up the steep, 
 To scale the precipice's Isrow 
 Their only hope of safety now. 
 
 But them the angry father sees, 
 With X'oice and arm lie menaces,
 
 Southey. 423 
 
 And now the Moors approach the steep, 
 Loud are his curses, loud and deep. 
 
 Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe. 
 He loosen'd stones and roll'd below, 
 He loosen'd crags, for Manuel strove 
 For life and liberty, and love. 
 
 The ascent was perilous and high, 
 The Moors they durst not venture nigh, 
 The fugitives stood safely there, 
 They stood in safety and despair. 
 
 The Moorish chief unmoved could see. 
 His daughter bend her supplicant knee, 
 He heard his child for pardon plead, 
 And swore the offenders both should bleed. 
 
 He bade the archers bend the bow ; 
 And make the Christian fall below, 
 He bade the archers aim the dart. 
 And pierce the Maid's apostate heart. 
 
 The archers aim'd their arrows there. 
 She clasp'd young Manuel in despair, 
 'Death, Manuel, shall set us free, 
 Then leap below and die with me.' 
 
 He clasp'd her close and cried farewell. 
 In one another's arms they fell ; 
 And falling o'er the rock's steep side, 
 In one another's arms they died. 
 
 And side by side they there are laid, 
 The Christian youth and Moorish maid : 
 But never cross was planted their, 
 Because they perisli'd for despair. 
 
 Vet ever)' Moorish maid can tell 
 Where Laila lies who loved so well, 
 And every youth who passes there, 
 Says for Manuel's soul a ]irayer." 
 
 Southey's spirit was strongly legendary, and he has caught the 
 
 true accent, not of heroic and chivalric tradition, but of the religious 
 
 enthusiasm of monastic times. A specimen of this may be seen in 
 
 Queen Orraca, and The Five Martyts of Morocco. 
 
 " The Friars live have girt tlieir loins, 
 
 And taken staff in hand ; 
 And never shall those Friars again 
 Hear mass in Christian land. 
 
 They went to (.Jueen Oracca, 
 
 To tliank her and t)lcs^. lier then ; 
 And t^ueen Oracca in tears 
 
 Knell to the lioly men.
 
 424 Southey. 
 
 'Three things, Queen Oracca, 
 
 We prophesy to you : 
 Hear us, in the name of God ! 
 
 For time will prove them true. 
 
 'In Morocco we must martyr'd be, 
 Christ hath vouchsafed it thus : 
 
 We shall shed our blood for Him 
 Who shed his blood for us. 
 
 To Coimbra shall our bodies be brought, 
 
 Such being the will divine ; 
 That Christians may behold and feel 
 
 Blessings at our shrine. 
 
 'And when unto that place of rest. 
 
 Our bodies shall draw nigh, 
 Who sees us first, the King or you, 
 
 That one that night must die. 
 
 'Fare thee well, Queen Orraca ! 
 
 For thy soul a mass we will say, ' 
 Every day as long as we live, 
 
 And on thy dying day. 
 
 The Friars they blest her, one by one, 
 Where she knelt on her knee, 
 
 And they departed to the land 
 Of the Moors beyond the sea. 
 
 'What news, O King Aftbnso, 
 What news of the Friars five ? 
 
 Have they preach'd to the Miramamolin ; 
 And are they still alive?' 
 
 'They have fought the fight, O Queen ! 
 
 They have run the race : 
 In robes of while they hold the jjalm 
 
 Before the throne of Grace, 
 
 ' All naked in the sun and air 
 
 Their mangled bodies lie ; 
 What Christian dared to bury them. 
 
 By the bloody Moors would die.' 
 
 'What news, O King Affonso, 
 Of the Martyrs five ? what news, 
 
 Doth the bloody Miramamolin, 
 Their burial still refuse ? ' 
 
 'That on a dunghill they should rot. 
 
 The bloody Moor decreed ; 
 That their dishonour'd bodies should 
 
 The dogs and vultures feed : 
 
 'But the thunder of God roll'd over them. 
 And the lightning of God flashed round 
 
 Nor thing impure, nor man impure, 
 Could approach the holy ground.
 
 Strut hey. 425 
 
 'A thousand miracles appall'd 
 
 The cruel Pagan's mind ; 
 Our brother Pedro brings them here, 
 
 In Coimbra to be shrined.' 
 Every Altar in Coimbra 
 
 Is dressed for the festival day ; 
 All the people in Coimbra 
 
 Are dight in their richest array ; 
 
 Every bell in Coimbra ^ 
 
 Doth merrily, merrily, ring ; 
 The Clergy and the Knights await, 
 
 To go forth witli the Queen and King." 
 
 Some of his minor original poems, have great tenderness and 
 simple dignity of thought. Many of his lyrical poems also have 
 an exalted tone in them, and a peculiarity of sentiment strictly his 
 own. Many specimens might be shown of these, but amongst the 
 best perhaps are tliose 7'f Contemplation, the Ode Written on 
 Sunday Mornins;, and 'Hie Widoiu. The first of these, To Con- 
 templation, possesses all the excellencies of true lyric poetry, and a 
 spirit of reflection pervades it throughout. 
 
 "Put sweeter 'tis to wander wild 
 ]3y melancholy dreams beguiled. 
 While the summer moon's pale ray 
 I''aintly guides me on my way 
 To the lone romantic glen 
 Far from all the haunts of men, 
 \\'here no noise of uproar rude 
 Preaks the calm of solitude. 
 I'ut soothing silence slee|)s in all. 
 Save the neighl)ouring waterfall, 
 Whose hoaiso waters falling near 
 Load with hollow sounds the car, 
 An<l with down-dash torrent white 
 Gleam hoary through the shades of night. 
 Thus wantlering silent on and slow 
 I'll nurse rL-flcction's sacred woe, 
 And muse upon the perish'd day 
 \\'lien hope would weave her visions gay, 
 Ere Fancy chilled by adverse fate 
 Left sad Kealily my mate." 
 
 The other, Written on a Sunday Mc?-nii!_i^; has in it all the flow 
 and graceful melody oflyric verse. 
 
 "Co tiiou and seek the house of pra3'er ! 
 I U) the woodlands wend, and there 
 In lovely nature see the God of love.
 
 426 Southey. 
 
 The swelling organ's peal 
 
 Wakes not my soul to zeal, 
 Like the wild music of the- wind-swept grove. 
 The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest 
 Rouse not such ardour in my breast, 
 
 As where the noon-tide beam 
 
 Flashed from the broken stream, 
 Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight ; 
 
 Or when the cloud-suspended rain 
 
 Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ; 
 Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height 
 I mark the billows burst in silver light. 
 
 Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 
 
 I to the woodlands shall repair, 
 
 Feed with all nature's charms mine eyes. 
 
 And hear all nature's melodies, 
 
 The primrose bank shall there dispense 
 
 Faint fragrance to the awakened sense ; 
 
 The morning beams that life and joy impart. 
 
 Shall with their influence warm my heart, 
 
 And the full tear that down my cheek will steal. 
 
 Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel ! 
 
 Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 
 I to the woodlands bend my way, 
 
 And meet religion there. 
 She needs not haunt the high-arched dome to pray 
 Where storied windows dim the doubtful day : 
 With liberty she loves to rove, 
 
 Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip dale ; 
 Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, 
 
 Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. 
 Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the night 
 Pours in the north her silver streams of light, 
 She woos reflection in the silent gloom. 
 And ponders on the world to come." 
 
 And the latter, The Widow, is full of simple tenderness, and 
 
 touching expression. 
 
 " Cold was the night-wind, drifting fast the snow fell. 
 Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, 
 When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, 
 Weary and way-sore. 
 
 Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections ; 
 Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom ; 
 She had no home, the world was all before her, 
 She had no shelter. 
 
 Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her ; 
 'Pity me !' feebly cried the poor night wanderer. 
 'Pity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger 
 Here I should perish.'
 
 Kirke White. ^ 427 
 
 ' Once I had friends, but they have all forsook me ! 
 Once I had parents, they are now in heaven ! 
 I had a home once I had once a husband 
 Pity me, strangers ! 
 
 I had a home once I had once a husband 
 I am a widow poor and broken hearted !' 
 Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
 On drove the chariot. 
 
 Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her ; 
 She heard a horseman, 'Pity me !' she groaned out ; 
 Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
 On went the horseman. 
 
 Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, 
 Down sunk the wanderer, sleep had seized her senses; 
 There did the traveller find her in the morning, 
 God had released her." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 KiRKE White. The works of this poet have been termed, the 
 fair blossoms of a richly fruitful race. His works, the miniature 
 buds and blossoms shaken from the tree, and green fruit evince 
 what the harvest would have been, and secure for him that remem- 
 brance on earth for which he toiled. 
 
 It is superfluous to detail White's powers : they were acknow- 
 ledged wherever they were known; and are still acknowledged 
 and appreciated by every true lover of poetry. There are truly 
 some amongst his poems of an indifferent character, but undoubt- 
 edly many that are included in his works, he himself would not 
 have published, To a i^cal admirer of his poetry, every scrap is 
 of value, and is read with interest; and for tliis reason the less 
 important ones which are generally included in his works, had 
 he lived to have taken that rank amongst English poets would, as- 
 suredly have been rejected. They all mark the state and progress 
 of his mind, and discover evident proofs of what he would have 
 been if it had been the will of Heaven to have prolonged his stay 
 on earth.
 
 428 Kirke White 
 
 The greatest number of White's poems are of such beauty that 
 Chatterton is the only youthful poet whom he does not leave far 
 behind him. There is a genius of the highest order in his produc- 
 tions, which is recommended by sincerity, and consecrated by piety, 
 so that no one can read them without being awed by the subject, 
 and improved by the sentiments. His poems, collectively, consti- 
 tute a history; it is interesting to trace in them the gradual progress 
 of his life and work ; and to observe how closely we may compare 
 them with the actual details of his career. His earlier days are 
 beautifully expressed in his poem Childhood. In it we see a 
 truthful and interesting reflection of the time and scenes of his 
 infancy, written probably when he was only between fourteen and 
 
 fifteen. 
 
 "Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet 
 Our infant days, our infants joys to greet ; 
 To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, 
 The village churchyard, and the village green. 
 The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, 
 The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade, 
 The wliite-washed cottage, where the wood-bine grew, 
 And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew ! 
 How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze. 
 To view the unclouded skies of former days ! 
 
 Beloved age of innocence and smiles. 
 
 When each wingM hour some new delight beguiles : 
 
 Wlien the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true. 
 
 Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 
 
 Blest childhood, hail ! Thee simply will I sing. 
 
 And from myself the artless picture bring : 
 
 These long lost scenes lo me the past restore, 
 
 Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more ; 
 
 And every stump familiar to my sight 
 
 Recalls some fond idea of deliglit. 
 
 This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat ; 
 
 Here did I love at e\ening to retreat, 
 
 And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 
 
 Hesper, aspiring, showed his golden light. 
 
 Here once again ; remote from human noise, 
 
 I sit me down to think of former joys ; 
 
 Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, 
 
 And once again each infant walk explore ; 
 
 While as each grove and lawn I recognise, 
 
 My melted soul suffuses in my ey^s, 
 
 And oh ! thou Tower, whose myriad trains resort 
 To distant scenes, and picture them to thought :
 
 Kirke White. 429 
 
 Whose miiTor, held unto the mourner's eye, 
 Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy ; 
 Blest Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, 
 Back to my youth my retrospective view ; 
 Recall with faithful vigour to my mind 
 Each face familiar, each relation kind, 
 And all the finer traits of them afford. 
 Whose general outline in my heart is stored. " 
 
 Then follows the picture of the Village Schoolmistress, which was 
 
 copied from nature. It is accurately and elegantly drawn : 
 
 "In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls 
 In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls; 
 The village matron kept her little school. 
 Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
 Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
 Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 
 Her neatly bordered cap, as lily fair. 
 Beneath her chin was pinned with decent care, 
 And pendant rufiles, of the whitest lawn. 
 Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
 Faint with old age and dim were grown her eyes, 
 A pair of spectacles their want supplies : 
 These does she guard secure, in leathern case, 
 From thoughtless wights, in some unweeled place. 
 Here first I entered, though with toil and pain, 
 The lowly vestibule of learnings fame ; 
 Entered with jiain, yet soon I found the way, 
 Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 
 Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn, 
 When I was first to school reluctant borne : 
 Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried 
 To soothe my swelling spirits when I sighed ; 
 And oft, when harshly she reiiroved, I wept. 
 To my lone corner l)ix)kcn-heartcd cre[H, 
 And thought of tender iiome, where anger never kept. 
 But soon inured to alphabetic toils, 
 Alert I met tlic dame with jocund smiles; 
 First at the form, my tasl; for ever true, 
 A little favourite rapidly 1 grew : 
 And oft she stroked my head will; f ir.d delight. 
 Held me a pattern tci the (hiuecs >iglit ; 
 And as she gave her diligence iier ]iraise, 
 Talk'd of my honours tif future days. 
 Oh ! had the venerable matron thought. 
 Of all the ills hy talent often hrou-lit; 
 Could she have seen me when rexolving \ears 
 Had brought me (K'e]ier in the vale of tears. 
 Then had she wept, and wish'd ujy wayward f;:te 
 Had been a lowlier, an unletter"d state ;
 
 480 Kirke White. 
 
 Wished that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 
 Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life." 
 
 The temper and tone of his mind at his fourteenth year are dis- 
 played in the following poem, An Add?-ess to Contemplatiotij in 
 which his mounting spirit seems to complain of the degradation of 
 his employment. 
 
 "Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, 
 The soother of my cares, inspiring peace; 
 And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, 
 And blame and censure me, that I don't tie 
 My eveiy thought down to the desk, and spend 
 The morning of my life in adding figures 
 With accurate monotony, that so 
 The good things of the world may be my lot, 
 And I might taste the blessedness of wealth : 
 But, Oh ! I was not made for money-getting ; 
 For me no much-respected plum awaits. 
 Nor civic honour, envied. For as still 
 I tried to cast with scho4il dexterity 
 The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts 
 Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, 
 Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen 
 Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictured. 
 In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent 
 I erewhile wandered with my early friends^ 
 In social intercourse. And then I'd think 
 How contrary' pursuits had thrown us wide. 
 One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe; 
 They were set down with solder steadiness. 
 Each to his occupation. 1 alone, 
 A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, 
 Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering 
 With ev'ry wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass. 
 Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge 
 In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 
 The busy bustling crowds could meditate. 
 And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away 
 Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 
 Aye, Contemplation, ev'n in earliest youth 
 I woo'd thy heav'nly influence ! I would walk 
 A weary way when all my toils were done, 
 To lay myself at night in some lone wood. 
 And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. 
 Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 
 To memory doubly dear ; for growing years 
 Had not then taught me man was made to mourn; 
 And a short hour of solitary pleasure, 
 Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense
 
 Kirke White. 431 
 
 For all the hateful bustles of the day. 
 
 My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic, 
 
 And soon the marks of care were worn away, 
 
 While I was sway'd by every novel impulse. 
 
 Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 
 
 But it has now assum'd its character ; 
 
 Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone. 
 
 Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. 
 
 Yet still, O Contemplation I I do love 
 
 To indulge thy solemn musings ; still the same 
 
 With thee alone I know to melt and weep, 
 
 In thee alone delighting. Why along 
 
 The duslcy track of commerce should I toil, 
 
 When with an easy competence content, 
 
 I can alone be happy ; where with thee 
 
 I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, 
 
 And loose the wings of Fancy ? Thus alone 
 
 Can I partake of hap|)iness on earth ; 
 
 And to be happy here is nian's cliief end, 
 
 For to be happy he must needs be good." 
 
 We can see by the following passage, On being confined to 
 School, written when only thirteen, how keenly he must have felt 
 his power for greater things ; and his dislike of all square and 
 pedantic rules. 
 
 "The morning sun's enchanting rays 
 
 Now call forth every songster's praise ; 
 
 Now the lark, with upward flight. 
 
 Gaily ushers in the light ; 
 
 Wliile wildly warbling from each tree, 
 
 The birds sing songs of Liberty. 
 
 Bui for me no sonf^'ster sings. 
 
 For me no joyous lark upsprings 
 
 F'or L conflned in gloomy scliool, 
 
 Must own the pedants iron rule, 
 
 And far from sylvan shades and bowers. 
 
 In durance vile must pass the iiours ; 
 
 There con the scholiast's dreary lines. 
 
 Where no bright ray of genius shines. 
 
 And close to rugged learning cling. 
 
 While laughs around the jocund si)ring. 
 
 How gladly would my soul forego 
 
 All that arithmeticians know, 
 
 Or stilf graniarians fpiaintly teach, 
 
 Or all that industry can reach, 
 
 To ta.-.te each morn of all the joys 
 
 That with the laughing sun arise ; 
 
 And unconstrained to rove along 
 
 The bushy brakes and glens among ; 
 
 And woo the Muse's gentle power.
 
 432 Kirke White, 
 
 In unfrequented rural bower : 
 But ah ! sucli heaven approaching joys 
 Will never greet my longing eyes ; 
 Still while they cheat in vision fine, 
 Yet never but in fancy shine. 
 Oh ! that I were the little wren 
 That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 
 Oh ! far away I then would rove, 
 To some secluded bushy grove ; 
 There hop and sing with careless glee, 
 Hop and sing at liberty ; 
 And till death should stop my lays, 
 Far from men would spend my days. " 
 
 It is easy to conceive the irksome confinement of school to a boy 
 whose taste for the sublime and beautiful led him to meet the ap- 
 proach of day. In this little poem, his feelings are expressively 
 pictured. The clear meanderings of the majestic Trent, the 
 expansive and flowery meadows which form its banks the hanging 
 grovesof Clifton which overshadow the stream, and the woods of 
 Cotgrave which crown its abrupt and sloping hills, all form scenes 
 where his muse delighted to wander. 
 
 In a poem written a few years later we become acquainted with 
 
 his religious opinions, which at that time inclined towards deism : 
 
 although this carries with it little or nothing, as it needs not be said 
 
 upon what slight grounds the opinions of a youth may be founded; 
 
 indicative only of an active mind and confined merely to matters 
 
 of speculation. A passage from the following poem My Own 
 
 Character, exemplifies this remark : 
 
 "Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, 
 To give you a sketch ay, a sketch of myself. 
 'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, 
 And one it would puzzle a painter to dress ; 
 But however, here goes ! and as sure as a gun 
 ri tell all my faults like a penitent nun ; 
 For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, 
 She wont be a cynical fiither confessor. 
 Come, come, 'twill not do ! put that curling brow down; 
 You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown, 
 Well, first, I premise, it's my honest conviction, 
 That my breast is a chaos of all contrailiction ; 
 Religious, deistic, now loyal and warm ; 
 Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform ; 
 T/iis momont a fop : //lat, sententious as Titus ; 
 Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus :
 
 Kirke White. 433 
 
 Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle ; 
 Then vexed to the soul with impertinent tattle ; 
 Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay ; 
 Tt) all points of the compass I veer in a day." 
 
 This poem on the wliole, exhibits much of White's character 
 
 at this time, when we compare with it the events of his life at that 
 
 period. Later on his religious opinions changed, and he became 
 
 conscious of the error into which he had fallen. About this time, 
 
 we learn, he published his Clifton Grove and other poems, which 
 
 were severely and unjustly censured, containing, as they really 
 
 did, true marks of genius. This period of the poet's life was one 
 
 of continual disappointments. The following Ode in which he 
 
 pours out his complaints, at once characterises this. 
 
 "Come, Disappointment, come I 
 Not in the terrors clad ; 
 Come in the mecl;est, saddest guise ; 
 Thy chastening rod hut terrifies 
 The restless and the bad. 
 But I recline 
 Beneath thy shrine, 
 And round my brow resign'd, the peaceful cypress twine 
 
 Though fancy flies away 
 
 Before thy hollow tread, 
 Yet Meditation in her cell. 
 Hears with faint eye, ling'ring knell, 
 That tells her hopes are dead ; 
 And though the tear 
 By chance ajipear, 
 Yet she can smile, say, Aly all was not laid here. 
 
 Come, Disap]5ointment. come ! 
 
 Thougli from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
 Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven. 
 For thou, severe, wcrt sent from heaven 
 To wean me from the world ; 
 To turn my eye 
 From vanity, 
 And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 
 
 What is this passing scene? 
 
 A peevish April day ! 
 A little sun a little rain. 
 And then nii,dit sweeps along the plain, 
 And all things [mX^: away. 
 Man fs.inn di^-ussM) 
 'S'ield.^ up his trust, 
 And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust
 
 434 Kirke White. 
 
 Oh, what is beauty's power? 
 
 It flourishes and dies ; 
 With the cold earth its silence break, 
 To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
 Beneath its surface lies ? 
 Mute, mute is all 
 O'er beauty's fall ; 
 Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 
 
 The most belov'd on earth 
 
 Not long survives to-day ; 
 So music past is obsolete, 
 And yet 'twas sweet 'twas passing sweet, 
 But now 'tis gone away. 
 Thus does the shade 
 In memory fade, 
 When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 
 
 Then since this world is vain, 
 
 And volatile and fleet. 
 Why should I lay up earthly joys. 
 Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
 And cares and sorrows eat ? 
 Why fly from ill 
 With anxious skill. 
 When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Thou art not stern to me ; 
 Sad jMonitress ! I own thy sway, 
 A votary sad in early day, 
 I bend my knee to thee, 
 ' From sun to sun 
 
 My race will run, 
 I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done ! " 
 
 White was at this time unswerving in his labourS; indeed to an 
 
 excess. It was then that he wrote his Lines on Recovery oj a fit 
 
 of Sickness, in the churchyard of his favorite village. It is sweetly 
 
 written, and is one amongst several of his poems, in which we see 
 
 that much as he craved to know, he equally desired that he might 
 
 be knotvft. 
 
 "Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot 
 Whicli I have long markVl out to lav my bones in: 
 Tired out and wearied with the riotous world. 
 Beneath this Yew I woidd be sepulchred. 
 It is a lovely spot ! The sultry sun, 
 From his meridian height, endeavours vainly 
 To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr 
 Comes wafting gently o'er the rijjpling Trent, 
 And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
 
 Kirke White. 435 
 
 Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray 
 Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. 
 
 Come; I will sit me down and meditate, 
 For I am wearied with mj summer's wallv ; 
 And here I may repose in silent ease ; 
 And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, 
 My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find 
 Tlie haven of its rest beneath this sod 
 Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 
 
 I would not have my corpse cemented down 
 With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm 
 Of its predestin'd dues ; no, I would lie 
 Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergi'own, 
 Swatlied down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters. 
 Yet may not undistin^tiishcd be my grave ; 
 But there at eve may some congenial soul 
 Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, 
 The good man's benison no more I ask. 
 And oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down 
 From whore, with cherubim inspired, they sit. 
 Upon this little dim-discovcr'd spot, 
 The earth.) then will I cast a glance bclmv 
 On liini who thus my ashes sliall embalm ; 
 And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer. 
 Wishing he may not, long be dooni'd to pine 
 In this low-thoughted woi-Id of darkling woe. 
 But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 
 Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body. 
 Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth. 
 Could taste the sweets of summer scenery. 
 And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze ! 
 Yet nature speaks within the lunuan bosom, 
 And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
 His narrow verge of being, and provide 
 A decent residence for its clayey shell, 
 Kndear'd to it by time. And who wcjuld lay 
 His body in the city burial-])lace, 
 To be thrown up again by some rude Sexton 
 And yield its narrow hou.<e anctther tenant, 
 Ere the moist flesh had mingle with the du t. 
 Ere the tenacious hair had left the seali> 
 Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 
 No, I will lay mo in the x'illai^c ground ; 
 Tliere are tho dead respected. The poor hind, 
 Unletter'd as he is, wo\dd scorn to iiwade 
 Tlio silent resting-place of death. I've seen 
 The laliourer, relurnint; from his toil, 
 Here stay liis steps, ami call his children round, 
 And slowly spell the rudely sculjitured rhvnies. 
 And, in his rustic manner, moralize. 
 I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd .spoken.
 
 436 Kirke White. 
 
 With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, 
 
 And all the honours which he paid the grave, 
 
 And tliought on cities, where even cemeteries, 
 
 Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, 
 
 Are not protected from the drunken insolence 
 
 Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. 
 
 Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close ! 
 
 Yet, if' this be denied, where'er my bones 
 
 May lie or in the cit,v's crowded bounds, 
 
 Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, 
 
 Or left a prey on some deserted shore 
 
 To the rapacious cormorant, yet still, 
 
 (For why should sober reason cast away 
 
 A thought which soothes the soul?) Yet still my spirit 
 
 Shall wing its way to these my native regions, 
 
 And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think 
 
 Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew 
 
 In solemn rumination ; and will smile 
 
 With joy that I have got my long'd release." 
 
 In this way it would not be difficult to scan White's whole 
 life in his poems, and the various impulses under which they 
 were written. But it is not the object of this work to particularize 
 the circumstances and events of the poet's lives of which it speaks; 
 it merely comprises a collection of observations on the merits and 
 beauties of their work. 
 
 The following extracts form some of the choicest and most ad- 
 mired of his conceptions. The language of most is vivid and 
 elegant, they often abound in a rich flov.- of words, and the interest 
 of them is greatly heightened by a continuous procession of fanciful 
 and ideal objects. The tinge of melancholy that pervades almost all 
 of them is the only thing that robs them of what might otherwise 
 be termed an original ciaarm. Some of his descriptions of natural 
 objects, are also almost perfectly drawn, and are now and then 
 tinged with the sweetest tints. Take for example, the following 
 passage from Childhood. 
 
 "To yonder hill, whose sides, deforin'd and steep. 
 Just yield a scanty sust'nance to llie sheep, 
 With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, 
 To see the sunrise from his healthy l)ed ; 
 To watch the aspect of the summer morn, 
 Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, 
 And taste, delighted, of superior joys. 
 Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes ; 
 With silent admiration oft we view'd
 
 Ktrke White. 437 
 
 The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd 
 The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade ; 
 Kound which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, 
 And the round orb itself, in azure throne, 
 Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone : 
 We mark'd, delighted, how with aspect gay, 
 Reviving nature liail'd returning day ; 
 Mark'd how the flow'rets rear'd their drooping heads, 
 And the \\ ild lambkins bounded o'er the meads. 
 While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, 
 The birds sung pa.'ans to the source of light. 
 Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, 
 Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, 
 And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more 
 Could trace him in his high aiirial tour : 
 Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 
 Came wafted slow on the wavy breeze along ; 
 And we have thought how happy were our lot, 
 Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, 
 Where, from the peep of day till russet eve 
 Began in every dell her forms to weave, 
 We might pursue our s]iorts from day to day, 
 And in each other's arms wear life away, 
 * 
 
 How calm was all around ! No playful breeze 
 
 Sighed 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 
 
 But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 
 
 The grey-fly wound his sullen horn along; 
 
 And save when heard in soft, yet merry glee, 
 
 The distant church-bells mellow harmony ; 
 
 The silver mirror of the lucid brook. 
 
 That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took, 
 
 1'he rugged arch, that clasped its silent tides. 
 
 With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides." 
 
 Or as a didactic effusion, much merit may be found in his poem 
 on Time. That part in which he gives a retrospect, as it were, of 
 bygone ages, and of tlie rise and fall of nations, is well worth quot- 
 ing as a genuine specimen of didactic verse. 
 
 "Who noods a teacher to admonish him 
 Qliat flosli is grass? That earthly thiiigs are mist? 
 \^'liat are our Joys but dreams? and what our hopes 
 But goodly sliadows in a sumnior cloud ? 
 There's not a wind that blows bul bi^vrs with it 
 Some rainbow promise : \ot a nioiu^'nt flies 
 But puts its sickle in the liclds of lil'o. 
 And mows its thous;iiids, with thcii' joy-i and earos. 
 'Tis but n yesterday since on yon stars. 
 Which now J view, the Clialdce shejiherd gazed, 
 In hia mid-watch observant, and disi)osed
 
 438 Kirke White. 
 
 The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 
 
 Yet in the interim what mighty sliocks 
 
 Have buffeted mankind, whole nations raved, 
 
 Cities made desolate, the polisli'd sunk 
 
 To barbarism, and once barbaric states 
 
 Swaying the wand of science and of art, 
 
 Illustrious deeds and memorable names 
 
 Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 
 
 Of grey tradition voluble no more. 
 
 Where are the heroes of the ages past? 
 
 Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 
 
 Who flourish'd in the infancy of days ? 
 
 All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 
 
 Exulting, mocking at the pride of man. 
 
 Sits grim Forgctftibiess. The warrior's arm 
 
 Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 
 
 Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 
 
 Of his red eye-bali. Yesterday his name 
 
 Was mighty on the earth. To day 'tis what ? 
 
 The meteor of the night of distant years, 
 
 That flash'd unnotic'd, save by wrinkled eld, 
 
 Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 
 
 Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 
 
 Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 
 
 Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up 
 
 Safe in the charnel's treasures, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 W^here is Rome ? 
 She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
 Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home ; 
 And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
 Now faintly echo to the j^ilgrim's feet 
 W^ho comes to muse in solitude, and trace 
 Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust. 
 But not to Rome alone hns fate confined 
 The doom of ruin, cities numberless, 
 Tyre, Sidon, Carthngc, Babylon, and Troy, 
 And rich Phoenicia they are blotted out, 
 Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
 And being in dispute. Has Athens fallen? 
 Is polished Greece become the savage seat 
 Of ignorance and sloth ? 
 
 * * -x- * 
 
 Where now is Britain ? \M)erc hci- laurell'd names, 
 
 Her palaces and balls. Dash'd in the dust, 
 
 Some second Yandal hath reduced her pride. 
 
 And with one big i-ecoil hath thrown her back. 
 
 To primitive barbarity. Again, 
 
 Through her depopulated vales, the scream 
 
 Of bloody superstition hollow rings.
 
 Kirke White. 439 
 
 And the scarr'd native to the tempest howls 
 The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts 
 ITer crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry 
 Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 
 Of distant hillows, breaks aiono tho void. 
 Even as the savage sits ci])on the stone 
 That marks wliere stood her capilols, and hears 
 The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 
 From the dismaying solitude. IFer bards 
 Sing in a language that hatli perisiied ; 
 And their wild harps, suspended o'er their graves, 
 Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain, 
 if- -X- * * 
 
 Oh who can strive 
 
 To comprehend the vast, the awful truth. 
 
 Of the eternity that hath ffone by. 
 
 And not recoil from the dismaying sense 
 
 Of human impotence ? The life of man 
 
 Is suinm'd in birlh-days and in sepidehres ; 
 
 But the Eternal God had no beginning ; 
 
 lie hatli no end. Time had been with him 
 
 I^'oi" cTerlast/ng, ere the dajdal world 
 
 Rose from tlie gulpli in loveliness. Like him 
 
 It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 
 
 What is it then ? Tlie past Eternity \ 
 
 We comprehend -a future without end ; 
 
 We feel il jiossihlo that even you sun 
 
 May roll for ever ; but we shrink amazed 
 
 We stand aghast, when we reflect that Tmie 
 
 Knew no connnenceinent. TJiat heap age on jige, 
 
 And million upon million, without end, 
 
 And we shall never span the void of days 
 
 That were, and are not but in retrospect. 
 
 The Past is an unfathomable depth, 
 
 Beyond the span of thought ; 'tis an cla])se 
 
 Wliich hath no mensuration, but liatli been 
 
 For ever and for ever." 
 
 In his lyric pieces, his Ode on tJic DralJi of Pennody, the Poet, 
 
 is one of the choicest. Its <;rcatcst merit lit^s in 'the language, 
 
 which is fitted so nearly to the subject of the jiocm. 
 
 "Child of misfortune ! offspring of the muse ! 
 
 Mark like the ni'^teor's glnam, liis mad career ; 
 With hollow clii^cks and hagLTard eye ; 
 I't'hold, he shi-ii'king jiasses by ; 
 
 T si>e. 1 see him near : 
 That hollow scream, that deei)ening groan ; 
 It rings upon my ear.
 
 440 Kirke White. 
 
 Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye dehided youth, 
 Who clasp the syren Pleasure to your breast ; 
 Behold the wr^ck of Genius here ; 
 And drop, oh drop the silent, tear 
 
 For Dermody at rest : 
 His fate is yours ; then from your loins 
 Tear quick the silken vest. 
 
 Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eyes, 
 Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil ; 
 How ghastly did it seem ; 
 And then his dying scream ; 
 
 Oh God ! I hear it still : 
 It sounds upon my fainting sense. 
 It strikes me with a deathly chill. 
 
 Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death ! 
 Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed. 
 Or pitying friends around him stand? 
 Or did'st thou see a mother's hand 
 
 Support his languid head ? 
 Oh none of these no friend o'er him 
 
 The balm of pity shed, 
 * * * 
 
 Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, 
 
 Where lios unwept the poet's fallen head ; 
 May peace her banners o'er him wave ; 
 For me in my deserted grave 
 
 No friend a tear shall shed : 
 Yet may the lily and the rose 
 Bloom on my grassy bed. " 
 
 Some of the Fi-ag7nents also exhibit the highest genius. For 
 
 instance the two following : 
 
 "Hushed is the lyre the hand that swept 
 The low and pensive wires, 
 Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires. 
 
 Yes it is still the lyre is still ; 
 
 The spirit which its slumbers broke, 
 Hath passed away and that weak hand that woke 
 Its for est melodies hath lost its skill. 
 
 Yet I would press you to my lips once more, 
 Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy; 
 
 Yet would 1 drink the fi-agrance which ye pour, 
 Mixed with decaying odours ; for to me 
 
 Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy." 
 
 "Once more, and yet once more, 
 
 I give unto my harp a daik-woven lay ; 
 I heard the waters roar, 
 
 I heard the floo]:) of ages pass away. 
 Oh thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell
 
 Byron. 441 
 
 Nothing, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 
 
 I saw thee rise, I saw the scroll complete, 
 Thou spakest, and at thy feet. 
 The universe gave way. " 
 
 The lamented and unexpected death of White, at the age of 
 twenty-one, with the bright prospect of fame and honours glittering 
 before him, has given a double interest to his character. All these 
 circumstances combined, have drawn forth an attention to his 
 writings, and given them an effect on the manners and principles 
 of the rising generations ; and perhaps have produced more good 
 than his improved abilities might have achieved had he been 
 spared to the age of three-score-years and ten. A distingushed 
 writer on his life, says, " He is the only poet of whom we know, 
 who displayed at such at early age so exalted a genius, and accom- 
 plished in a few years so great a supremacy over both the languages 
 and sciences." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Byron. A critic says, " If ever man breathed when we recog- 
 nise as emphatically the Genius ; that man was Byron ; and, if 
 ever genius made poetry its mouth-piece, covering with its trans- 
 cendant utterances a multitude of sins, whether against art or 
 against the full stature of perfect manhood Byron's is that poetry." 
 He excelled in all its elements. As another writer observes, 
 "We find in Byron a perpetual stream of quick-coming fancies 
 an eternal spring of fresh-blown images, which seem called into 
 existence by the sudden flash of those glowing thoughts and over- 
 whelming emotions, that stru.uglc for expression through the whole 
 flow of his poetry, and impart to a diction, that is often abrupt and 
 irregular, a force and ;i cliaim which seem frequently to realize all 
 that is said of insi)iration." 
 
 Too much has already been said about the private character of
 
 442 Byron. 
 
 Byron to mention it here, although it is impossible to do other than 
 acknowledge that Byron often disregarded many of the great moral 
 and religious duties, and made them subjects of his defiance and 
 ridicule. We see throughout his vvorks, that one of his most pro- 
 minent antipathies was hypocrisy. This hatred took early hold of 
 his understanding as well as of his passions : and as it was his nature 
 to be direct and violent, it must be admitted that he sometimes 
 carried it too far; and that in his eagerness to expose deception and 
 pretence, occasionally tore away too much of the veil from life, and 
 laid naked the deformities of nature too rudely. 
 
 The following excellent observations will express all we could 
 desire to say of this poet's merits. "It is the identification of all By- 
 ron's poems with his own character, that constitutes their greatest 
 attraction. This is the attraction, however, that many censure and 
 condemn; but it gives to his poems a sincerity, a certainty, a vivacity, 
 which scarcely any other poems possess. It is said that he is not like 
 Shakespeare : he cannot throw himself into every variety of shape; 
 represent every course of passion ; or develop every diversity of 
 thought produced by nature or by circumstances: that it is still one 
 and the same gloomy mind throwing fortli its gloom and its pas- 
 sions ; its hatreds ; its scorns ; and its raptures ! This is true. 
 But this unity has its advantage as well as its disadvantages. 
 However powerful and rich imagination may be, it can never 
 quite equal the force of actual and personal experience in those 
 who are endowed with the highest degree of feeling, passion and 
 intellectual splendour. Lord Byron's life was poetry, and his 
 verses are but its mirror I He was endowed with gifts of singular 
 force, with feeling of such intensity and splendour, which the 
 chances of life had brought into full play under circumstances of 
 such extraordinary interest, that it is doubtful if mere invention could 
 ever have produced anything more equally striking and just. The 
 disclosure of the internal movements of such a mind is read 
 with breathless interest. It has all the brilliancy of fiction, with 
 the solidity of fact. All Byron's noblest poems have reference to 
 life, only in cases extraordinarily circumstanced and of violent and
 
 Byron. 443 
 
 grand excitement, That is to say, life as it appeared to Byron, 
 not as it appears to a common mind." * 
 
 There is something so rare in Byron's genius, and in all the 
 circumstances connected with it, as to render it almost an exhaust- 
 less subject. There is no doubt that his poem of Don yuan, stands 
 unexampled and unrivalled in all the poetry of the world. Its two 
 constituents 2lXQ. passion and wit, perpetually interpenetrating and 
 enhancing one another, both limped and unforced. But the great 
 thing of all in Byron's poetry is Genius that quality so "perilous 
 to define, so evanescent in its aroma, so impossible to mistake," 
 
 What are considered Byron's faults are merely the forms ; the 
 essence is the genius, and that knows no vicissitudes; and acknow- 
 ledges no fleeting jurisdiction. Childe Harold is full of descriptive 
 and meditative passages and perpetually carries the readers through 
 widely distant scenes. The first canto principally describes Portu- 
 gal and Spain, and contains many powerful pictures of the great 
 battles which rendered memorable the struggle between those 
 oppressed nations. 
 
 In the First canto of Childe Harold Byron has drawn many real 
 and beautiful scenes of Spanish life and manners ; as for instance, 
 the following admirable description of the bull-fight, 
 
 "Thrico sounds the clarion ; lo 1 the signal falls, 
 The den expands, and Expectation mute 
 Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
 Hounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
 And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
 The sand, nor blindly rualics on his foe: 
 Here, there, he points his tlirratening front, to suit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and iro 
 
 His angry tail, red rolls his eye's dilated glow: 
 
 Sudden he stops : his eye is fix'd : away. 
 Away, tliou heedless boy I prepare the spear; 
 Now is tiiy time to perish, or display. 
 The skill that \c[ may elieck iiis mad career. 
 With wi>ll-limed crou[)i> the nimble corscrs veer; 
 On fiiiims tho hull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
 StreaTns t'roni his Hank the crimson torrent clear, 
 He Hies, he wheels, distracted with his throes : 
 Dart follows dart, lat.ce, lance; loud bellowing speak his woes. 
 Again he comes ; nrir dart nor lance avail, 
 Kor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
 
 * iSii Ktcrt^n I'.iyciycs, Hail.
 
 444 Byron. 
 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is streteh'd a mangled corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
 Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; 
 Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. 
 
 Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
 Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast. 
 And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
 And now the Matadores around him play, 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the i-eady brand: 
 Once more through all he bursts his thundering way 
 Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
 Wraps his fierce eye 'tis past he sinks upon the sand ! 
 
 Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
 Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
 He stops he starts disdaining to decline : 
 Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant ci'ies, 
 Without a groan, without a struggle dies, 
 The decorated car appears ; on high 
 The course is piled sweet sight for vulgar eyes 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy. 
 Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by." 
 
 In the Second canto Childe Harold is carried to Greece, Albania 
 and the ^gean Archipelago; and the poet has reproduced the scen- 
 ery and wild life of these picturesque regions with an unequalled 
 
 genius. 
 
 "The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
 With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
 And gold embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
 The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
 The Delhi with liis cnp of terror on, 
 And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 
 And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
 The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak. 
 Master of all around, too potent to be meek. 
 
 Are mix'd conspicuous ; some reline in groups, 
 Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
 There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
 And some tliat sjnoke, and some that play are found ; 
 Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground : 
 Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
 Hark; from the mosque the nightly solenni sound, 
 The Mui^zzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
 'There is no God but God 1 to prayer lo! God is great.'" 
 
 The Third canto contains the finest and most intense feeling of
 
 Byron. 445 
 
 the whole of this poem. It was in Switzerland that Byron began 
 first to sound his genius to the depths. " In the beautiful cam- 
 pagne of Coligny^' says Brydges, " overlooking the broad expanse 
 of the Genevan lake, and terminating its view by the Jura moun- 
 tains, he gave himself up to meditation, to self examination and 
 to regret, gilded and pierced by the glorious sun of poetical magic." 
 It is in this canto that the character of his mind came fairly out. 
 
 "Is it not better, tlien, to be alone, 
 And love earth only for its eartbly sake ? 
 ]5y the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
 Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
 A fair but froward iufiuit her own care, 
 Kissing its cries away as these awako : 
 Is it not belter thus our lives to wear, 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of tbat around me ; and to me, 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fleshly cliain, 
 C'lass'd among creatui-es, when tlie soul can flee, 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or tlie stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
 I look upon the peopled desert past. 
 As oti a place of agony and strife, 
 Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast. 
 To act :iTid suffi'r. b>it remount at last 
 W'itli a fresli pinion ; which I felt to spring 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast 
 Which it would cojie with, on delighted wing, 
 Spurning the clay-cold bonds, which round our being cling. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind .sliall he all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form, 
 Reft of lis carnal ]if(>, save wiiat shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, 
 When elements to elemeTits conform. 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Fed all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
 The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? 
 Are not tlie mountains, waves, and skies a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart
 
 446 Byron. 
 
 With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the Ijai-d and wordly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?" 
 
 Switzerland, Belgium and the Rhine also give in this canto, 
 
 splendid opportunities for many pictures of nature, of consummate 
 
 beauty. 
 
 "But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
 
 The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 
 And throned Eternity in icy halls 
 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 
 The avalanche the thunder-bolt of snow ! 
 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
 
 Gather around these summits, as to show 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 
 * * * * * 
 
 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 
 The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
 
 Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
 
 There is too much of man here, to look through 
 
 With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
 
 But soon in me shall loneliness renew 
 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 
 ***** 
 
 There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 
 Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 
 
 And colour things to come with hues of IS'ight, 
 
 The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
 
 To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
 
 The boldest steer but where their ports invite. 
 
 But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be." 
 
 In the P'ourth Canto the reader is carried in a continuous course, 
 over the fairest and most touching scenes of Italy Venice, Ferrara, 
 Florence, Rome, and Ravenna are all discribed in the same mas- 
 terly manner. 
 
 "I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand ; 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand :
 
 Byron. 447 
 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times when many a suliject land 
 Looked to the winged Lion's marl)le piles, 
 Where Venice sate in state, tlironed on lier hundred isles ! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Rising with her tira of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
 And sucli she was ; her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear ; 
 Those days are gone l)ut Beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade but Nature doth not die, 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
 The pleasant place of all festivity. 
 The revel of the earth, the masque o'( Italy ! 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away 
 The keystones of the arch ! thougli all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 Tlie beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multijily in us a brighter ray 
 And more beloved existence : that which Fate 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our stale 
 Of mortal Ijondage, by these spirits supplied 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early (lowers have died, 
 And with a fresher growth re[)lenishing the void." 
 
 Don yuan the longest of Byron's poems, 'is perhaps at the same 
 
 time the most singular and characteristic. It is written in octaves, 
 
 a kind of versificition borrowed from the Italians. The merit of 
 
 this poem is tlie ricliness of ideas, thoughts, and images, and above 
 
 all, the constant passage from the loftiest and tendercst tone of
 
 448 Byron. 
 
 poetry to the most familiar and mocking style. Its great defect 
 throughout, is a materialistic tone of morality; everything in turn is 
 made the subject of a sneer, which shows in this respect the design 
 to have been a selfish one. There are in parts of this poem, how- 
 ever, the warmest outbursts of feeling, and the most admirable 
 descriptions of nature. The following passages frora the Second 
 Canto are excellent specimens of the former. 
 
 '"Tis sweet to hear 
 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 
 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
 From leaf to leaf ; 'tis sweet to view on high 
 The rainbow, based on oceans, span the sky. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest b^irk 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words." 
 
 "No more no more Oh ! never more on me 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
 
 Hived in our bosoms like I he bag o' tlie bee : 
 
 Think'st thou the honey wit]) lliose objects grew? 
 
 Alas! 'twas uot in tbcni. but in tlij j)ower 
 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 No more no more Oh ! never more, my heart, 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 
 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
 
 The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
 Insennible, I trust, but none the worse, 
 
 ^iid in tliy stead I've got a deal ol' judgment, 
 
 Tbougli lieaven knows how it ever found a lodgmeTit." 
 
 In the Eleventh Canto the Court of St. Petersburg is described, 
 followed by the passage in which Juan is sent on a diplomatic 
 mission to England, in which stanzas we get a very minute and 
 sarcastic account of English aristocratic society.
 
 Byron. .149 
 
 But perhaps the finest of all the descriptive passages in this poem, 
 
 is that of the Shipwreck in the Second canto, from which the 
 
 following stanzas have been selected. 
 
 "Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell- 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, 
 
 Then some leap'd overljoard with dreadful yell, 
 As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave. 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd. 
 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
 
 Save the wild wind and. the remorseless dash 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd. 
 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 x- * * -i- * 
 
 Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, 
 Resting its bright liase on the quivering blue ; 
 
 And all within its arch appear'd to be 
 Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
 
 Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, 
 Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 
 
 * -x- * * * 
 
 With twilight it again came on to blow, 
 
 But not with violence ;'the stars shone out, 
 The boat made way ; yet now they were so low. 
 
 They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
 Some fancied they saw land, and some said 'Xol' 
 
 The frequent fog-banks gave tlieni cause to doubt ; 
 Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
 And all mistook about the latter once. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
 
 When he who hail the waudi >-uii^ out. and .-.wore, 
 
 If 'twas not land that lose with the sun's ray, 
 He wish"d that land he never mi_Ljhl see more ; 
 
 And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 
 
 Or thought they saw, and shapetl their course for shore ; 
 
 For shore it was, and i;radually grew 
 
 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 And tlicn of llicsc .^ouR p.ut bLUsi into tears, 
 XwA others, looking with a stupid stare,
 
 450 Byron, 
 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
 And seeni'd as if they had no further care ; 
 
 While a few pray'd (the first time for some years) 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 
 Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head, 
 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them dead." 
 
 Of all Byron's productions Don ynan,'\s certainly the most at- 
 tractive. It keeps the mind a pleasing captive, and has a power 
 of detaining the attention. The wild and daring sallies of sentiment 
 with which it abounds, the peculiar violence of wit which pervades 
 each canto, excites at once astonishment and enthusiasm. The 
 original humour, and peculiarity of expression, the incidents, the 
 circumstances, the surprises, the jests of action and of thought, the 
 shades of light and of darkness so exquisitely intermingled, give it 
 a peculiarity which places it above all modern poetry. In it Byron 
 has displayed all his characteristic beauties and blemishes; and 
 a critic has compared its construction to the image of Nebuchad- 
 nezzar's dream of "fine gold, silver, and clay." 
 
 The Giaour, one of Byron's romantic tales is written in the irre- 
 gular and flowing versification which Scott brought into fashion. 
 It has in it several inimitable descriptions, which harmonize well 
 with the tone of the poem. Such is the following : 
 
 "Above the mountain rears a peak, 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak ; 
 And theirs may ha a feast to-night 
 Sliall tempt them down e'er morrow's light. 
 Iieneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
 And left a channel bleak and liare. 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of granite grey, 
 By time, or mountain ligluning riven 
 From summits clad in mists of hea^cn ; 
 For where is lie that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura un\'eird ?" 
 
 One of the finest passages in this poem, is the famous comparison 
 
 of enslaved Greece to a corpse : 
 
 "' Tis (ireece, L>ul living Greece no mure ! 
 .^o coldly swcel, so deadly fair, 
 We .--tart for soul is wai.ling there.
 
 Byron. 451 
 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 
 That ]iarts not quite with parting breath : 
 
 l^ut ])eauty with that fearful Ijloom, 
 
 That hue which haunts it to the tonib 
 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 
 A gilded halo hovering; round decay, 
 
 The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away ! 
 Spark of that flame perchance of heavenly birth 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth 1" 
 
 There is the same peculiarity of thought and sentiment in the 
 Siege of Corinth as in the proceeding poem ; it is written in the 
 same melodious versification. This poem is full of glowing des- 
 criptions and abounds with the picturesque imagery for which 
 Hyron excels. Amongst the descriptions, one of the most animated 
 is the following : 
 
 ' 'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
 Hlue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
 liespangled with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 U'ho c\er gazed upon them shining, 
 And turn'd to earth without repining, 
 Nor wish'd for wings to ilee away. 
 And mix with their eternal ray? 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air : 
 An(> scarce their foam tiic pebbles shook, 
 l!ut murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
 The banners dropped along the staves, 
 And. as tiiey fell around them furling, 
 .\bove tliem shone the crescent curling ; 
 And that deep silence was unbroke, 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
 And echo answerM from the hill, 
 An<l the wide hum of that wild host 
 Kustlcd like leaves from coast to coast. 
 As rose the Muezzin's \'oice in air 
 In midnigiit call to wonted ]irayer ; 
 II rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
 Like some lone spirit'^ o"er the plain : 
 "Twas musical, but sadly sweet. 
 Such as wlu'n winds and liarp-slrings meet. 
 And take a long unmeasure<l tone, 
 To nuirtal minstrelsy unknown. 
 It secmM to tliose within the wall
 
 452 Byron. 
 
 A cry prophetic of their fall : 
 
 It struck even the beseiger's ear 
 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 
 An undefined and sudden thrill, 
 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 
 Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell, " 
 
 This poem is remarkable for the extraordinary variety and force 
 of its descriptions a variety greater than will generally be found 
 in Byron's tales. There is also exhibited in it much more of 
 genius than in the Giaoitr. 
 
 Mazeppa is also in the versification of Scott, In this poem the 
 
 same dramatic scenery is set before the reader, and described with 
 
 equal intensity. The powerfully written episode of the gallop of 
 
 the wild steed, with the victim lashed on his back carries the 
 
 reader away with its charm. 
 
 "We near'd the wild wood 'twas so wide, 
 I saw no l)ounds on either side ; 
 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees. 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 
 And strips the forest in its haste ; 
 But these were few and far between, 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 Ere strewn by those autumnal eves, 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 Discolour'd with a lifeless red. 
 Which stands thereon like stifien'd gore, 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 Its frosts o'er every tombless head, 
 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 
 And here and there a chestnut stood, 
 The strong oak, and well the hardy pine ; 
 
 But far apart and well it were. 
 Or else a dififerenl lot were mine 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength to l^ear 
 My wounds, already scarr'd with cold 
 My bonds forl^ade to lose mj hold. 
 We rustled thrciugli the leaves like wind. 
 Left shrubs, ami trees, and wolves beliiiid ;
 
 Byron. 453 
 
 By night I heard them on the track, 
 Their troo]) come hard upon our back, 
 VVitli their long galloji, which can lire 
 Tiie hounds deep hate and hunter's fire : 
 Where'er we tlew they follow'd on. 
 Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
 I'ehind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
 At dayl)reak winding tln-ough the wood. 
 And through the night had lieard tlieir feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh I how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde. 
 And i^erish, if it must be so 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my coursers race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 I3ut now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain roc ; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 I'lcwilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
 Than through the forest-paths he pass'd. 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild : 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still 
 A woman piqued^who has her will. 
 
 * * * -: 
 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Metiiought I. heard a courser's neigli, 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
 \o, no ! from out the forest ])rancc 
 
 A trami")ling troop : I see them come I 
 In one vast stjuaflron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry my li;>s were ilumb. 
 The steeds ru>h on in plunging ]ii)de : 
 Ibit where nre they the reins to guidoi' 
 A thi'U^and horse and none to lidel 
 With tlowing tail, and living mani', 
 Wide nostriN, never >lretc!rd by pain, 
 ]\rouths bloodless to the Mt or rein, 
 .And feet that iinn never >h<)d, 
 .\nd llank'~ uii^earr'd 1>}' ^piir or rod. 
 A thoii--and hoi>e. the wild, the free, 
 Like wax'e-^ that f ill w o'er the ->ea, 
 
 Canu: thickly tliundering on, 
 k< if nur ftint apprnach to meet ; 
 The sight rener\ed my cnn'^er'^ feet.
 
 454 Byron. 
 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, ^ 
 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh, 
 
 He answer'd, and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immovable, 
 
 His fii-st and last career is done ! " 
 
 In the Parisana there are many passages of rare beauty. A 
 specimen of this may be seen in the opening lines 
 
 "It is the hour when from the boughs 
 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisperd word ; 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 Malte music to the lonely ear. 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 And on the wave is deeper blue. 
 And on the leaf a browner hue. 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
 Wliich follows the decline of day, 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away," 
 
 In the Pfisoner of Chill 07J, the hopeless tone of sorrow and un- 
 complaining suffering which runs through the whole gives it a 
 strong hold upon the reader's feelings. Like the rest of Byron's 
 poems, it possesses many exquisite passages which it seems almost 
 impossible to pass over : 
 
 "What next befell me then and there 
 
 I know not well I never knew 
 First came the loss of light and air, 
 
 And then of darkness too: 
 I had no thought, no feeling none ; 
 Among the stones I stood a stone, 
 And was, scarce conscious what 1 wist, 
 hv, shruliless crags within the mist ; 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray. 
 It was not night it was not day, 
 It was not even the dungeon light. 
 So hateful to my heavy sight, 
 But vacancy absorbing space. 
 And fixedness without a place ; 
 There were no stars no earth no time 
 No check no change no good no crime 
 But silence, and a stirless l)reath 
 Which neither was of life nor deatli ; 
 A sea of stagnant idleness,
 
 Byron. 455 
 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise. 
 And they tiiat moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to tlieir wonted track, 
 I saw the dungeon's walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was percJi'd, as fond and tame, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its like before 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate. 
 But was not half so desolate, 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free, 
 
 Or broke its cage to jierch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird I 1 could not wish for thine I 
 Or if it were, in wingt'd guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise; 
 For Heaven i'orgi\e that thouglit I the while 
 Which made me both to wee]:; and smile; 
 I sometimes deem'd that il might l)e 
 My bruther's soul come down to me ; 
 But then at last away it Hew, 
 And then 'twas mortal well 1 kneu-. 
 For he would never thus have tlowii, 
 An<i left nie tuicc no doubly lone - 
 Lone as tlic corse within its shroud, 
 Lone a.s a solitary cloud 
 
 A single cloud on a siinny da)', 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the ninios])here. 
 That hath no business to ap[>ear 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay.'
 
 456 Byron. 
 
 There are many passages also in Tlie Bride of Abydos written 
 with the same brilliancy and dramatic power. There is scarcely 
 any passage in Byron written with greater energy than the follow- 
 
 'He lived lie l}reatliecl--hc moved he fell ; 
 He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
 His trance was gone his keen eye shone 
 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
 With thoughts that burn in rays that melt. 
 
 As the stream lale conceal'd 
 
 By the fringe of its willows, 
 When it rushes reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the l)lack cloud that bound it, 
 Flash'd the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 A warhorse at the trumpet's sound, 
 A lion rous'd by heedless hound, 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 y graze of ill-directed knife, 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 
 And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
 
 'Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
 With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
 Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
 Though sworn by one, hath ])ound us l)olh. 
 Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
 That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
 But blench not thou thy simplest tress 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 Within the caves of Istakar.'' 
 
 The characters which Byron chooses have in them little to admire, 
 btit they are framed in such brilliant and picturesque coverings 
 that in reading them one loses sight of their contradictions ; and 
 there are times when all of us have thought the gloomy, mysterious 
 heroes of Byron, the very ideal (fall that is noble and admirable. 
 
 The poems of the Corsaii . Lara and the Island mq in the regu- 
 lar English-rhymed heroic measure, L-ut it is difficult to say which 
 metrical form, Byron uses with the greatest vigour and effect.
 
 Byron. 457 
 
 One of the finest passages from amongst these poems, is the 
 battle-scene from Lara, from which the following passage is ex- 
 tracted. It is written with all the charactcrestic intensity of Byron, 
 
 "Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
 Where foe anpear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
 Cheers Laras voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
 But those that waver turn to smite again, 
 Wliile yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 Recoil before their leader's look and lilow : 
 Tvcnv girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
 He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
 Himself he spared not once they seem'd to fly- 
 Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
 And shook Why sudden drops that plumed crest ? 
 The shaft is sped tlie arrow's in his breast ! 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
 And death liath striken down yon arm of pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung I 
 l!ut yet the sword instinctively retains. 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins, 
 These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow. 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow. 
 Perceives not I^ara that his anxious jiage 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
 The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
 The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
 The heel that urged liim and the hand that rein'd, 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
 Whose waters mock tlie lii) of those that die ; 
 That ])anting thirst which scorches in the breatli 
 Of those that die the soldier's llery death, 
 In vain impels tlie burnini; nu)uth to crave 
 One drop- the last to con] it for the grave, 
 With feeble and convulsive eliort swept, 
 Their limbs aloUL; the crinisnn'd turf have crept ; 
 The faint remains of life such slruLj^des waste, 
 but yet they leacli tile stream, and i)end to taste : 
 'i'liey feel its fresliiu-s, and almost partake 
 Why pau-^e? Xi> further thirst hive they to slake 
 It is mKiuench'd. and yet they feel it not ; 
 It was an agmiy but not firgot !"
 
 458 Byron, 
 
 The poem oi Lara also abounds in some of the most gorgeous 
 descriptions, written with the freedom and grace for which Byron, 
 is so distinguished. The following passage for example, 
 
 "]Vight wanes the vapours round the mountains curl'd, 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
 But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth : 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream, 
 Immortal man ! behold her glories shine 
 And cry, exulting inly, ']They are thine !'" 
 
 The Island, in four cantos, is a striking incident extracted from 
 the narrative of the famous mutiny of the Bounty, when Captain 
 Bligh and his officers were cast off by his rebellious crew in an 
 open boat, and the mutineers, under the command of Christian, 
 established themselves in half-savage life on Pitcairn's Island, 
 where their descendants were recently living. The following pas- 
 sage in the Second canto is selected from this poem as a specimen. 
 
 " The love which ma!:eth all things fond and fair, 
 The youth which makes one rainbow of the air, 
 The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
 The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 
 The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
 Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
 United the half savage and the whole, 
 The maid and boy in one absorbing soul. 
 No more the thundering memory of the fight 
 Wrapp'd his wean d bosom in its dark delight : 
 No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
 Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest, 
 Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
 Darts for a victim over all the sky : 
 His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state. 
 At once Elysian and effeminate. 
 Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; 
 These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 
 Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid. 
 Does not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
 Had Ca;sar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
 Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 
 And what have Cresar's deeds and Cccsar's fame 
 Done for the Earth ? We feel them in our shame, 
 The gory sanction of his glory stains
 
 Byron. 459 
 
 The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
 Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
 Roused millions to do what single Brutus did- 
 Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 
 From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long,- 
 Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 
 And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
 When but a word of freedom would dispel 
 These bugbears, as their terrors show too well." 
 
 In Beppo,3.x\di the Vision of Judgment, Byron has ventured upon 
 
 the gay and satirical. The former a little Venetian narrative, 
 
 exhibits a minute knowledge of the details of Italian manners and 
 
 society. It has in it a tinge of immorality, but is extremely playful 
 
 and sparkling. The unexpected manner in which Byron introduces 
 
 the following stanza, gives to this poem a considerable charm. 
 
 " Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 
 Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies 
 
 With all we know of Heaven, or can desire. 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us ? in what guise, 
 
 Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre. 
 Would ivords describe thy past and present glow 
 While yet Canova can create below?" 
 
 The Vision ofjudi^^nicnt is a most severe attack upon Southey; 
 in which Byron very warmly repels the charges brought by Southey 
 against the alleged immorality of his poems, and shows up with 
 unmerciful bitterness, the contrast between Southey's former ex- 
 treme liberal opinions, and his then mad devotion to the principles 
 of the court; and parodying the poor and pretentious verses w^hich 
 Southey, as poet laureate, wrote as a sort of deification of George 
 III. It is a very brilliant and animated satire, though rather too 
 fierce in point of language, and contains many extremely pic- 
 turesque and beautiful passages. 
 
 The description of Sunset wiili whicli The Curse of Minerva 
 
 opens, is inexpressibly beautiful. 
 
 "Slow ^5il1ks, more lovely ere his race he run, 
 Along Morea's hills llie setting sun ; 
 X(.)l, as ill Xoilhern climes, ohsciuely Ijrighl, 
 r>ul one uiiclouiled lila/,e of ii\ing light ; 
 O'er the lui^^hM deei) the yellow beam he throws.
 
 460 Byron. 
 
 Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows. 
 On old /Egina's rock and Hydra's isle 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through his long expanse, 
 More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance ; 
 And tendcrest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Eehind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve his palest beam he cast, 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell r.^.y. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ; 
 Not yet not yet Sol pauses on the hill. 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 J;ut sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dari< the mountain's once delightful dyes. 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sank below Cithceron's h.ead, 
 The cup of woe was ijuaffd the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him that scornd to fear or fly, 
 Who lived and died as none can live or die." 
 
 The Lament of Tasso is sweetly written, and is full of the tendcr- 
 est feeling and pathos. The following stanza will amply illustrate 
 this poem. 
 
 " I loved all solitude but little thought 
 To spend I know not what of life, remote 
 From all communiun wiih existence, save 
 The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
 I'heir fellow, many years ere this had seen 
 My minil like theirs corrupted to its gra-\'e, 
 But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
 Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
 The world is all before h'ww nn'/ic is /leir, 
 Scarce twice the space Ihey must accord my bier. 
 What though Iw jK-rish, he may lift his eye 
 And with a dying glance upbraid the sky 
 I will not raise my own in sucli reproof. 
 Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof." 
 
 The rrofi/icsy of Dante is written in the difiicult lerza riina, the 
 
 first attempt of any English poet to employ that measure. Nothing
 
 Byron. 461 
 
 can be more beautiful than the following passage from the First 
 canto : 
 
 "O Florence ! ['"lorence ! unto me thou wast 
 Like that Jerusalem which the Alniighly He 
 
 Wept over, 'but thou wouldst not ;' as the bird 
 
 Gathers its young, I would have gather'd ihee 
 Beneath a parent pinion, hadst ihou heard 
 
 My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
 
 Against the breast that chcrish'd thee was stirr'd. 
 Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
 
 And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
 
 Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
 To him who for that country would expire, 
 
 But did not merit to expire by her. 
 
 And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 
 The day may come when she will cease to err. 
 
 The day may come when she would be proud to have 
 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 
 Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave."' 
 
 Of all Byron's minor works, Tlie Dream is the most touching 
 and complete. It is the narrative, in the form of a vision, of his 
 early love-sorrow. "There is hardly in the whole range of litera- 
 ture," says a writer, ' so tender, so lofty, and so condensed a life- 
 drama as that narrated in those verses. Picture after picture is 
 softly shadowed forth, all pervaded by the same mournful glow, 
 and 'the doom of the two creatures' is set before us in all its 
 hopeless misery." The openiiVg stanza is sweetly expressed : 
 
 "Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world, 
 A boundary belwocn the things, iiusiianied 
 Death an<l exi.-^t' nee : Sleej) hath its (n\ n world. 
 And a wide realm of wild rcalit}". 
 And dreams in their develnpuieni iia\c breath, 
 And tears, and iDrtures. and the Iwru-l! ofjoy; 
 They leave a weiidit ii;)i)n our vsakin,^' thii\iL;hts, 
 They take a weiL;hL fic.m oil' our v, akin^ toils, 
 They do cHvide our being ; they become 
 A portion of our.--(.'l\e^ a- of our time, 
 An<l look like lierahb of eternity ; 
 They pa--^ like spirits of the pr.-t. -llic)- sjicak 
 Like sil))ls of ih.c fututk' ; ihcy lia\e power 
 The tyranny of ii!La-'.iie aii'l ol ; ain ; 
 They ni ike u-^ wluu we were not - wk.at they will. 
 And shake u> with the \i>ion tii:;l's i;one by.'' 
 
 Hyron's dranuitic works are alter the st\le of Ariosto. The 
 
 finest of his dramas is Ma)tfrcd, which in some degree resembles
 
 462 Byron. 
 
 Faust, by which it is said to have been suggested. It does not 
 
 consist of action represented in dialogues, but a series of sublime 
 
 soliloquies, in which Manfred describes nature, and pours forth his 
 
 despair and self-pity. The scene with which it opens has a strange 
 
 resemblance to the first monologue of Faust. 
 
 "The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers if I slumber are not sleep, 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
 To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
 The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
 Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
 The Tree of Knowledge is not tliat of Life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these subject to itself 
 But they avail not : I have done men good, 
 And I have met with good even among men 
 But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
 And none have baffled, many fallen before me 
 But this avail'd not : Good, or evil, life, 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
 Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread. 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes. 
 Or lurking love of something on the earth. 
 Now to my task. 
 
 Mysterious j4gency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
 'V\''hom I have sought in darkness and in light 
 Ye, who do compass earth about and dwell. 
 In subtler essence ye, to whom the tops 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 
 Which gives me power upon you Rise! appear ! 
 
 \_A pausc.\ 
 They come not yet. Now by the voice of him 
 \^'ho is the first among you by this sign, 
 Whicli makes you tremble^by the claims of him 
 
 Who is undying, Else ! appear I Appear ! 
 
 \_A pause.']
 
 Byron. 463 
 
 If it be so Spirits of earth and air, 
 Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power, 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
 Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd, 
 The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
 By the strong curse that is upon my soul, 
 Tlic thought which is within me and around me, 
 I do compel yc to my will. Appear ! " 
 
 In Manfred, that tone of melancholy misanthrophy which dis- 
 colours more or less, all the poems of Byron, is most to be seen. 
 Amongst the many beautiful passages in this poem, the medita- 
 tion of Manfred on the Jungfrau, and the description of the ruins 
 of the Coliseum are perhaps the finest. As detached pieces, they 
 are singularly grand and touching. 
 
 Manfred's meditation on the Jungfrau is a magnificent soliloquy 
 upon Nature, written with 'the rare, mysterious power, for which 
 Byron is so admired. 
 
 " My mother Earth I 
 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
 
 Why are yo beautil'ul ? I cannot love ye. 
 
 And thou, the briiilu eye of the universe, 
 
 That opencst over all, and unto all 
 
 Art a delight thou shin'st not on my heart. 
 
 And you, ye crags, upon whoso extreme edge 
 
 I stand, aTid on the torrent's brink beneath 
 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's IkhI 
 
 To rest for ever wherefore do I ])ause? 
 
 I teel the impulse yet 1 do not pliuige ; 
 
 I see the peril yet do not recede ; 
 
 And my brain reels and yet my foot is firm : 
 
 There is a ])ower upon me which withholds. 
 
 And makes it my fatjdily to live ; 
 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 
 My own soul's scinilebre, for I have ceased 
 
 To justify my deeds unto myself - 
 
 The last inlirmity ot evil. Ay, 
 
 Thou winged and cloud-cLavinrj uiinister, 
 
 Wbns" li:ipi>y lliirht is higbi'st into ii<\aveii, 
 \\'i>ll miy'--t thou swoop so ue.-ir ni" 1 should be 
 Thy pi'ey, and gorg thine enM;let-i ; thuu art lumn 
 Where th.^ eye cainnjl follow thee ; but thino
 
 464 Byron. 
 
 Yet pierces downwnrd. onward, or above 
 
 Witl) a pei'vading vision. Beautiful ! 
 
 ITow beautiful is all this visible woi-ld ! 
 
 How glorious is its action and itself! 
 
 Eut we, who, name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 
 To sink or soar, with our niix'd essence make 
 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 
 The breath of degi-adation atid of pride. 
 
 Contending with low wants and lolty will, 
 
 Till our mortality predominates, 
 
 And men are what they name not to themselves, 
 
 And trust not to each other. Hark I tlie note, 
 
 \The Shcplierd s pipe in the distance is /leardi] 
 The natural Tuusic of the mountain reed, 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastornl fable pipes in the liberal air, 
 Mix'd witli the sweet bells of the sauntering lierd ? 
 My soul would drink these echoes. Oh, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound; 
 A living voice, a breathing hnrmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment born and dyiiig 
 ^ With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 * * * * -x- 
 
 To be thus 
 Grny-hnir'd with anguish, like the blasted pines. 
 Wrecks of a single wiiitei", barkless, branciili^ss, 
 A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 
 Which but supplies a feeling to decay 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
 Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years ; 
 And hours- all tortui-ed into ages hours 
 Wliicli I outlive ! Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhclming, come and crush me ! 
 1 hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
 And only fall on things that still would live ; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or th'^ hut 
 And lip.mlct of the harmless villnger." 
 
 The other the splendid description of the ruins of the Coliseum. 
 
 is equal in point of grandeur and beauty. 
 
 'I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Koine ; 
 The trees which gi'ew along the bi'okcn arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, i>.nd the stnrs 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from ai'ar
 
 Byron. 465 
 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 
 
 More near from out the Crcsars' palace came 
 
 The owls long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 
 Begun and died upon the g.'ntle wind. 
 
 Some cypresses beyond the timo-worn breach 
 
 Apppar'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 
 Within a bow-shot where the Ccesars dwelt, 
 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 
 A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 
 
 And twines its roots with th'i imperial! hearths. 
 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; 
 
 But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 
 While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,. 
 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 
 Which soften'd down the hour austerity 
 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 
 
 As 'twere, anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! 
 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 
 Our spirits from their urns." 
 
 In Caifi, there is the same manifestation of the poet's sceptical 
 spirit, and the same tone of mocking misanthrophy as in Man- 
 fred. In Byron's historical poems Maritio Faliero, The Two 
 Foscari, and Sardanapalus, there is discoverable, more or less, 
 the same philosophical tenets for which Shelley's works are so 
 conspicuous, but in each of them there is to be seen the same 
 magnificent powers of expression and thought. 
 
 Much might be said of Byron's other works, and examples 
 given ; they have each their peculiar merits and exhibit the same 
 intensity of passion, and brilliant powers of description, for which 
 Byron stands unequalled.
 
 466 Shelley. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI I. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 Shelley. To read Byron is to understand him, but you must 
 understand Shelley in order to appreciate reading him. Thought 
 lies embedded in thought ; metaphor environed in metaphor ; the 
 whole bedecked with a profusion of gorgeous imagery, a power of 
 imagination and subtlety of diction, apt to lead the senses of a care- 
 less reader into a sensuously charming repose, and to annihilate 
 that force of intellect, that necessity of unwearying discrimination, 
 which is indispensable for a complete understanding of this poet's 
 unequalled writings. As a poet, he was gifted with a very exalted 
 genius, great fertility of imagination, and a command overall the 
 resources of metrical harmony, such as no English poet has sur- 
 passed. 
 
 Shelley was all his life both as a poet and a man, a dreamer and 
 a visionary : his mind was filled with glorious but unreal phantoms 
 of the possible imperfectability of mankind. "So ardent was his 
 sympathy with his kind," Shaw says, " and so intense his abhorrence 
 of the corruption and suffering that he saw around him, that the 
 very intensity of that sympathy clouded his reason; and he fell into 
 the common error of all enthusiasts, of supposing that, if the pres- 
 ent organization were swept away, a milennium of virtue and 
 happiness must ensue. He traced the misery and degradation of 
 mankind to the institution of religion, of government, and of mar- 
 riage ; and not to those passions which these institutions are 
 intended, however imperfectly, to restrain.'' This remark charac- 
 terises exactly the principles of Shelley's works. His poems for the 
 most part, concern themselves not with the world, as it has been, 
 but of the perfected world which is to be. The charge of atheism 
 brought against him, rests mainly on his early poem of Queen Mab, 
 and this he did not himself give to the world. The poem itself is a 
 wild phantasmagoria of beautiful description, and fervent and ec- 
 static declamation, written in that irregular, unrhymed versification 
 of which the Tlialaba of Southey is an example. The defect of this
 
 Shelley. 467 
 
 poem, as of many of Shelley's compositions, is a vagueness of 
 meaning, which occasionally becomes absolutely unintelligible. 
 There are, in this poem, many very fine descriptive passages ; as 
 for instance, the following passage with which the Fourth part com- 
 mences, 
 
 "How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh, 
 Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear, 
 Were discord to the speaking quietude 
 That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, 
 Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
 Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, 
 Seems like a canopy which love had spread 
 To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, 
 Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 
 Yon darksome rock.'J, whence icicles depend, 
 So stainless, that their white and glittering spires ^ 
 Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep, 
 Whoso baiuier hangcth o'er the time-worn towers 
 So idlv, that rapt fancy deemeth it 
 A metaphor of peace ; all form a scene 
 Where musing solitude might love to lift 
 Iler soul above this sphc. e of carthliness; 
 Where silent undisturbed might watch alone, 
 So cold, 80 bright, so still." 
 
 The exclamation also with which this poem opens, is very finely 
 
 expressed. 
 
 "How wonderful is Doatli, 
 
 Death and his brother sleep ! 
 One, pale as yonder waning moon 
 
 Witli lijis of lurid blue ; 
 The other, rosy as the morn 
 
 When throned on ocean's wave 
 
 It blushes o'er the world : 
 Yet both so passing wonderful !"' 
 
 Perhaps the most complete and distinct, as also the finest of 
 Shelley's poems, is Alastor or the Spirit of .Soliiiidt\ in which he 
 depicts the sufterings of such a character as his own ; a being pos- 
 sessing the warmest sympathies and the loftiest aspirations, driven 
 into solitude and despair by the ingratitude of his kind, who are 
 incapable of understanding and s\nipathising with his aims. The 
 descriptions in tliis poem arc inimitably beautiful ; woodland and 
 river scenery are portrayed with a power which places Shelley in 
 the foremost rank among the pictoiial poets. The following des- 
 cription, which contains the journey of Alastor into his forest
 
 468 SMley. 
 
 retreat, is a passage which it would be almost difficult to parallel. 
 
 " The noonday sun 
 Now shone upon the forest, one vast masp 
 Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence 
 A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, 
 Scoped in the dark base of those aery rocks 
 Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever. 
 The meeting boughs and implicated leaves 
 Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led 
 By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death, 
 He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank, 
 Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark 
 And dark the shades accumulate the oak. 
 Expanding its immense and knotty arms 
 Embraces the light beach. The pyramids 
 Of the tall cedar overarching, frame 
 Most solemn domes within, and far below, 
 Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 
 The ash and the acacia floating hang 
 Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed 
 In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, 
 Starred Avith ten thousand blossoms, flow around 
 The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infant's eyes, 
 With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles, 
 Fold their beiims round the hearts of those that love, 
 These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs 
 Uniting their close union ; the woven leaves 
 Made net-work of the dark blue light of day, 
 And the night's noontide clearness, mutable 
 As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns 
 Beneath these canopies extend their swells. 
 Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms 
 Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen 
 Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine, 
 A soul-dissolving odour, to invite 
 To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell. 
 Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep 
 Their noon-day watch, and sail among the shades. 
 Like vaporous shapes half seen ; beyond, a well. 
 Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave. 
 Images all the woven boughs above. 
 And each depending leaf, and every speck 
 Of azure sky, darting between their chasms ; 
 Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 
 Its portraiture, but some inconstant star 
 Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair. 
 Or painted bird, sli^cping beneath the moon. 
 Or gorgeous insect, floating motionless. 
 Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings 
 Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.
 
 Shelley. 469 
 
 Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld 
 
 Their own wan light through the reflected lines 
 
 Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth 
 
 Of that still fountain ; as the human heart, 
 
 Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, 
 
 Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard 
 
 The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung 
 
 Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel 
 
 An accustomed presence, and the sound 
 
 Of the sweet brook that from the-^ecret springs 
 
 Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed 
 
 To stand beside him clothed in no bright robes 
 
 Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, 
 
 ] borrowed from aught the visible world affords 
 
 Of grace, or majesty, or mystery ; 
 
 But undulating woods, and silent well, 
 
 And reaping rivulet, and evening gloom 
 
 Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming 
 
 Held commune with him, as if he and it 
 
 Were all that was, only . . . when his regard 
 
 Was raised by intense pensiveness . . . two eyes 
 
 Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, 
 
 And seemed with their serene and azure smiles 
 
 To beckon him." 
 
 Hellas, and The Revolt of Islam, are of the same character as 
 
 Queen Mab violent assertions and invectives against religion, 
 
 priestcraft, and marriage ; but full of airy and exquisite pictures of 
 
 scenes and beings, of superhuman and unearthly splendour. There 
 
 is, however, the same defect as in many other of Shelley's poems; a 
 
 vagueness of meaning, by which the reader is almost unable to 
 
 follow the regular drift of the subject. The former of the above 
 
 poems, Hellas, contains one very fine passage, the Chorus on 
 
 Freedom. It is written with peculiar force and intensity. 
 
 "In the great morning of the world, 
 The Spirit of God with might unfurl'd 
 The flag of Freedom over Chaos, 
 
 And all its banded anarchs fled, 
 Like vultures frighted from Imaus, 
 
 Before an carlliquake's tread 
 So from Time's tempestuous dawn 
 Freedom's splendor burst and shone : 
 ThermopyLu and Marathon 
 Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, 
 The springing fire. The winged glory 
 On riiilippi half-alighted, 
 
 Like an eagle on a promontory. 
 Its unwearied wings could fan
 
 470 Shelley. 
 
 The quenchless ashes of Milan. 
 
 From age to age, from man to man, 
 
 It lived : and lit from land to land 
 
 Florence, Albion, Switzerland : 
 Then night fell ; and as from night 
 Re-assuming fiery flight, 
 From the West swift Freedom came, 
 
 Against the course of heaven and doom 
 A second sun array'd in flame : 
 
 To burn, to kindle, to illume. 
 From far Atlantis its young beams 
 Chased the shadows and the dreams. 
 France, with all her sanguine streams. 
 
 Hid, but quench'd it not ; again 
 
 Through clouds its shafts of glory ran 
 
 From utmost Germany to Spain. 
 As an eagle fed with morning 
 Scorns the embattled tempest's warning 
 When she seeks her aery hanging 
 
 In the mountain cedar's hair, 
 And her brood expect the clanging 
 
 Of her wings through the wild air 
 Sick with famine Freedom so 
 To what of Greece remaineth now 
 Returns ; her hoary ruins glow 
 Like orient mountains lost in day ; 
 
 Beneath the safety of her wings 
 Her renovated nurselings play. 
 
 And in the naked lightnings 
 
 Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. 
 
 Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies, 
 
 A Desert or a Paradise ; 
 
 Let the beautiful and the brave 
 
 Share her glory or a grave." 
 
 The other, The Revolt of Islam, excels in point of language the 
 
 Hellas, and is also full of many rich and sublime passages. Take 
 
 for one example, the descriptive piece with which the poem begins, 
 
 "So as I stood, one Islast of muttering thunder 
 Burst in far peals along the waveless deep, 
 When, gathering fast, around, above and under, 
 Long trains of tremulous mist began to creep. 
 Until their complicating lines did steep 
 The orient sun in shadow ; not a sound 
 Was heard ; one horriljle repose did keep 
 The forest and the floods, and all around 
 Darkness more dread than night was poured upon the gronnd. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the rushing of a wind that sweeps 
 Earth and the ocean. See ! the lightnings yawn
 
 Shelley. 471 
 
 Deliiging Heaven with fire, and the lashed deep 
 
 Glitter and boil beneath : it rages on, 
 
 One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves upthrown, 
 
 Lightning, and hail, and darkness eddying by. 
 
 There is a pause the sea-birds, that were gone 
 
 Into their caves to shriek, come forth, to spy 
 
 What calm has fall'n on earth, what light is in the sky. 
 
 For, where the irresistible storm had cloven 
 
 That fearful darkness, the blue sky was seen 
 
 1*' retted with many a fair cloud interwoven 
 
 Most delicately, and the ocean green, 
 
 Bciieath that opening spot of blue serene. 
 
 Quivered like burning emeralds : calm was spread 
 
 On all below ; but far on high, between 
 
 Earth and the upper air, the vast clouds fled, 
 
 Countless and swift as leaves on autumn's tempest shed. 
 
 For ever, as the war became more fierce 
 
 Between the whirlwinds and the rack on high, 
 
 That spot grew more serene ; blue light did pierce 
 
 The roof of those white clouds, which seein'd to lie 
 
 Far, deep, and motionless ; while thro' the sky 
 
 The ppUid semicircle of the moon 
 
 Past on, in slow and moving majesty ; 
 
 Its upper liorn arrayed in mist, which soon 
 
 But slowly fled, like dew beneath the beams of noon." 
 
 The Witch of Atlas is written upon the same principle, and 
 
 contains several similar severe invectives against kingcraft and 
 
 priestcraft. For example, 
 
 "(The priests would write an explanation full. 
 
 Translating liieroglyphics Into Greek, 
 How the god Apis really was a bull, 
 
 And roth'ng nroro ; and bid the herald stick 
 The same against the teuiple doors, and pull 
 
 The old cant down ; they licensed all to speak 
 Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats and geese, 
 By pastoral letters to each diocese. 
 
 The king would dress an ape u]i in his crown 
 And r(jbcs, and seat him on his f^lorlous seat, 
 
 And on the rl ^iil hand of the sunlike throne 
 WouUl place a ga' ily mock-hlixl to rej)eat 
 
 The ch..tterings of t.ie monlcey. Every one 
 Of the ,.rone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet 
 
 Of their giv t Emperor when the morning came ; 
 
 And kissed alas, how many kiss the same ! " 
 
 Vet there is the same obscurity and difficulty of discerning the 
 drift of this poem, though the characters are equally striking and
 
 472 Shelley. 
 
 vivid in point of reality, and have the same brilliant glow of im- 
 agination. 
 
 Shelley's genius was, in fact, of a high order ; but instead of pos- 
 sessing it, he was possessed by it ; and his muse, as a writer has 
 well compared it, is ' a pythoness upon her tripod, torn and con- 
 vulsed by the utterance of which she is the channel': and this is 
 the characteristic of Shelley's poetry. The following passage from 
 the Witch of Atlas, contains all that glittering imagery for which 
 this poet is so remarkable. 
 
 "And down the streams which clove those mountains vast 
 
 Around their inland islets, and amid 
 The panther peopled forests, whose shade cast 
 
 Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid 
 In melancholy gloom, the pinnace pass'd 
 
 By many a star-surrounded pyramid 
 Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, 
 And caverns yawning round unfathomably. 
 
 The silver moon into that winding dell, 
 
 With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, 
 Tempered with golden evening, feebly fell ; 
 
 A green and glowing light, like that which drops 
 From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell. 
 
 When earth, over her face night's mantle wraps ; 
 Between the severed mountains lay on high 
 Over the stream, a narrower rift of sky. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The water flashed like sunlight, by the prow 
 
 Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven 
 The still air seemed as if its waves did flow 
 
 In tempests down the mountains, loosely driven : 
 The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro 
 
 Beneath the billows, having va-nly striven 
 Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel 
 The swift and steady motion of the heel. 
 
 Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, 
 
 Or, in the noon of interlunar night. 
 The lady-witch in visions could not chain 
 
 Her spirit ; but sailed forth under the light 
 Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain 
 
 His storm-outspeeding wings, th' Hermaphrodite 
 She to the Austral waters took her way, 
 Beyond the fabulous Thamondocona. 
 
 Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven. 
 Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake,
 
 Shelley. . 473 
 
 With the Antarctic constellations haven, 
 
 Canopus and his crew, lay th' Austral lake 
 
 There she would build herself a windless haven 
 Out of the clouds, whose moving turrets make 
 
 The bastions of the storm, when through the sky 
 
 The spirits of the tempest thundered by. 
 
 A haven, beneath whose translucent floor 
 The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, 
 
 And around which, the solid vapours hoar, 
 Based on the level waters to the sky 
 
 Lifted their dreadful crags ; and like a shore 
 Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly 
 
 Hemmed in with rifts and precipices grey, 
 
 And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. 
 
 And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash 
 
 Of the winds' scourge, foamed like a wounded thing; 
 
 And the incessant hail with stony clash 
 
 Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing 
 
 Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash 
 Looked like the wreck of some wind ^wandering 
 
 Fragment of inky tlumder smoke this haven 
 
 Was as a gem to copy heaven engraven." 
 
 The Cenci is the only one of Shelley's poems, that shows a clear 
 
 and firm outline : it is a terrible story of real life dramatised with 
 
 consummate vigour and directness of treatment. The subject is 
 
 one of the most friglitful of those domestic crimes in which the 
 
 black annals of mediaeval Italy so abound. The language is 
 
 vigorous and masculine, and it contains several very powerful and 
 
 striking scenes. The scene containing the murder of the Cenci is 
 
 the most strikingly written, 
 
 Lncrctia. "They are about it now. 
 
 Beatrice. Nay, it is done. 
 
 Liter. I have not heard him groan. 
 
 Bent. lie will not groan. 
 
 Lucr. ^VVhat sound is tiiat ? 
 
 Beat. List ! 'tis the tread of feet 
 
 About his bed. 
 
 Ltur. My God ! 
 
 If he be now a cold stifi" corpse ! 
 
 Beat. Oh, fear not 
 
 What may be done, but what is left undone : 
 
 The act seals all. 
 
 Euter OLiMPio and marzio. 
 Is it accomplished ? 
 il/^;-. What ?
 
 474 Shelley, 
 
 Olim. Did you not call ? 
 
 ^<?rt/. When? 
 
 Olim. Now. 
 
 Beat. I ask if all is over ? 
 
 Olim. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man ; 
 
 His thin gray hair his stern and reverend brow, 
 
 His veined hands ci-ossed on his heaving breast, 
 
 And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay, 
 
 Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. 
 
 Mar. But I was bolder ; for I chid Olimpio, 
 
 And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave, 
 
 And leave me the reward. And now my knife 
 
 Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man 
 
 Stirred in his sleep, and said, 'God ! hear. Oh hear 
 
 A father's curse ! What ! art thou not our father ?' 
 
 And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost 
 
 Of my dead father speaking through his lips, 
 
 And could not kill him. 
 
 Beat. Miserable slaves ! 
 
 Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, 
 
 Found ye the boldness to return to me 
 
 With such a deed undone ? Base palterers ! 
 
 Cowards and traitors ! Why, the very conscience 
 
 Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge 
 
 Is an equivocation : it sleeps over 
 
 A thousand daily acts disgracing men : 
 
 And when a deed where mercy insults heaven 
 
 Why do I talk ? 
 
 (Snatching a dagger from one of them, afid raising it) 
 
 Hadst thou a tongue to say, 
 
 She murdered her own father, T must do it ! 
 
 But never dream ye shall outlive him long ! 
 
 Olim. Stop, for God's sake ! 
 
 Mar. I will go back and kill him. 
 
 Olim. Give me the weapon ; we must do thy will. 
 
 Beat. Take it ! depart ! Return ! 
 
 (Exeunt Olim, and Afar.) 
 How pale thou art ! 
 We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime 
 To leave undone. 
 Lucr. Would it were done ! 
 Beat. Even whilst 
 
 That doubt is passing through your mind, the world 
 Is conscious of a change. Darkness and hell 
 Have swallowed up the vapour Ihey sent forth 
 To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath 
 Comes, methinks, lighter, and the gelid blood 
 Runs freely through my veins. Hark ! 
 
 Enter OIJMPIO and MARZIO. 
 0/;w. Dead !
 
 Shelley, 475 
 
 Mar. We strangled him that there might be no blood, 
 
 And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden 
 
 Under the balcony ; 'twill seem it fell. 
 
 Beat, (^Giving them a bag of coin.) 
 
 Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. 
 
 And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed 
 
 By that which made me trouble, wear thou this ! 
 
 ( Clothes him in a rich mantle. ) 
 It was the mantle which my grandfather 
 Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
 Envied his state : so may they envy thine. 
 Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
 To a just use. Live long and thrive ! and, mark. 
 If thou hast crimes, repent : this deed is none. 
 
 {A horn is sounded.) 
 Lucr. Hark I 'tis the castle horn ; my God ! it sounds 
 Like the last trump. 
 Beat. Some tedious guest is coming. 
 Lucr. The drawbridge is let down ; there is a tramp 
 Of horses in the court ; fly, hide yourselves ! 
 
 {Exeunt Olim. and Mar.) 
 Beat. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest. 
 I scarcely need to counterfeit it now : 
 The spirit which doth reign within these limbs 
 Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep 
 Fearless and calm, all ill is surely past," [Exeunt.) 
 
 The Prometheus Unbound, is one of the wildest and most unin- 
 telligible of all Shelley's works, though there are contained in it 
 numberless passages of the highest beauty. Many of the descriptive 
 passages are sublime, and noble burst of lyric harmony alternate 
 with the wildest personifications and fiercest invectives. Its great 
 defect is, that is too full of super-subtle and unsubstantial ab- 
 stractions. The following from this poem, is a very elegant passage. 
 
 " My soul is an enchanted boat, 
 
 Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 
 Upon the silver waves of thy s\\eet singing ; 
 
 And thine doth like an angel sit 
 
 Beside the helm conducting it, 
 Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing, 
 
 It seems to float ever, for ever, 
 
 Upon that many-winding river, 
 
 Between mountains, woods, abysses, 
 
 A paradise of wiUlcrnesses ! 
 Till, like one in slumber bound, 
 Borne to the ocean, I ttoat down, around. 
 Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound : 
 
 Meanwhile the spirit lifts its pinions
 
 476 Shelley. 
 
 In music's most serene dominions, 
 Catcliing the winds that fan that happy heaven ; 
 
 And we sail on, away, afar, 
 
 Without a course, without a star. 
 But by tlie instinct of sweet music driven ; 
 
 Till through Elysian garden islets , 
 
 By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 
 
 Where never mortal pinnace glided, 
 
 The boat of my desire is guided : , 
 
 Realms where the air we breathe is love, 
 Which in the winds on the waves doth move. 
 Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. 
 
 W^e have pass'd Age's icy caves, 
 And Manhood's dark and tossing waves, 
 And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray : 
 
 Beyond the glassy gulphs we flee 
 
 Of shadow-peopled Infancy. 
 Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day ; 
 
 A paradise of vaulted bowers. 
 
 Lit by downward-gazing flowers, 
 
 And watery paths that wind between 
 
 Wildernesses calm and green, 
 Peopled by shapes too bright to see. 
 And rest, having beheld ; somewhat like thee ; 
 Which walk upon the sea, and chaunt melodiously I " 
 
 Rosalind and Hele7i,\'s, an elaborate pleading against the institu- 
 tion of marriage, and unreasonable as the subject of the poem is, 
 there are parts of it that teem with exquisite sentiment and feeling. 
 The following passage overflows with great tenderness and pathos. 
 
 "Yet day Ijy day he grew more weak, 
 And his sweet voice, when he might speak, 
 Which ne'er was loud, became more low ; 
 And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek 
 
 Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow 
 From sunset o'er the Alpine snow : 
 And death seemed not like death in him, 
 For the spirit of life o'er every limb 
 Lingered, a mist of scene and thought. 
 When the summer wind faint odours brought 
 From mountain flowers, even as it passed, 
 His cheek would change, as the noon-day sea 
 Which tlie dying breeze sweeps fitfully, 
 If but a cloud the sky o'ercast. 
 You might see his colour come and go, 
 And the softest strain of music made 
 Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade 
 Amid the dew of his tender eyes : 
 And the breath, with intermitting flow,
 
 Shelley. 477 
 
 Made his pale lips quiver and part. 
 You might hear the beatings of his heart, 
 Quick, but not strong, and with my tresses 
 When oft he playfully would bind 
 In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses 
 His neck, and win me so to mingle 
 In the sweet depth of woven caresses, 
 And our faint limbs were intertwined, 
 Alas ! the unquiet life did tingle 
 From mine own heart through every vein, 
 Like a captive in dreams of liberty, 
 Who beats the wall of his stony cell.'' 
 
 AdonaiSy an elegy written on the death of Keats, is of a pastoral 
 
 character, and suggests to the reader the immortal Lycidas of 
 
 Milton. It is a beautiful and touching lament on the early death 
 
 of Keats, whose short career gave such a noble foretaste of poetical 
 
 genius, that would have made him one of the greatest writers of his 
 
 age. Amongst the most beautiful of the stanzas, are the following 
 
 noble bursts of real poetical feeling and enthusiasm. 
 
 "He lives, he wakes 'tis Death is dead, not he ; 
 Mourn not for Adonias. Thou young Dawn, 
 Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 
 The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 
 Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
 Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 
 Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown 
 O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare 
 
 Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair. 
 
 He is made one with Nature : there is heard 
 His voice in all her music, from the moan 
 Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; 
 He is a presence to be felt and known 
 In darkness and in light, from licrl) and stone, 
 Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
 Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
 Which wields the worUl with never-wearied love. 
 Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 
 
 He is a portion of the loveliness 
 W'hich once he made more hncly : he iloth bear 
 His part, while the one S[]iril.'s plastic stress 
 Sweeps through tlie dull dense world, compelling there 
 All new successions to tlie forms tlicy wear ; 
 Torturing ih' unwilling dross that checks its flight 
 To its own likeness, as each mass they bear ; 
 And bursting in its beauty and its might 
 From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' light."
 
 478 Shelley. 
 
 In point of versification the Sensitive Plant is the best. It is as 
 extraordinary for its melody and variety, as for its high degree of 
 mysterious fancy. The reader is carried throughout with a desire 
 of penetrating the abstract meaning which the poet has symbohsed 
 in the beautiful description of the garden and the Plant, and which 
 is locked up, says Shaw, "as the embryo is involved in the fold- 
 ings of the petals of a flower." The whole of the poem is full of 
 the most luxuriant imagery and descriptions. This poem can be 
 read by everyone, as a masterpiece of real poetical genius. We 
 quote a few verses of it : 
 
 "A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
 And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
 And it opened its fan-like Luves to the light, 
 And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 
 
 And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 
 Like the Spirit of Love fell everywhere : 
 And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
 Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
 
 But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
 In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
 Like a doe in the noon-tide with love's sweet want, 
 As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 
 
 The snow-drop ;ind then the violet, 
 
 Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 
 
 And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent 
 
 From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 
 
 Then the pied wild-flowers and the tulip tall, 
 And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess. 
 Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 
 
 And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 
 , Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
 
 That the light of it tremulous bells is seen 
 Through their pavilions of tender green ; 
 
 ATid the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
 Which flujig from its bells a sweet peal anew 
 Of mus'c so delicate, soft, and intense. 
 It was felt like an odour within the sense. 
 
 And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare :
 
 Shelley. 479 
 
 And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 
 As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, 
 Till the flery star, which is its eye, 
 Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 
 
 And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
 The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
 And all rare blossoms from every clime 
 Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
 
 And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, 
 Which led through the garden along and across. 
 Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
 Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, 
 
 Were all paved with daises and delicate bells 
 As fair as the fabulous asphodels, 
 And flowrets which drooping as day, drooped too, 
 Fell into pavilions white, purple, and blue. 
 To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 
 
 * * )( * 
 
 Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
 And frost in the mist of the morning rode, 
 Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright. 
 Mocking the spoil of the secrft night, 
 
 The roselcaves, like flakes of crimson snow. 
 Paved the turf and the moss below. 
 The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan. 
 Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 
 
 And Indian plants of scent and hue 
 The sweetest that ever was fed on dew, 
 Leaf after leaf, day after day, 
 Were massed into the common clay. 
 
 And the leaves, brown, yellow, and grey, and red, 
 And white with the whiteness of wluit is dead, 
 Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past ; 
 Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 
 
 And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds, 
 Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds. 
 Till they clung round many a sweet flower's stem, 
 Which rotted into the earth with them. 
 
 The water-blooms under the rivulet 
 Fell from the stalk on which they were set ; 
 Ami the cildies drove them here and there, 
 As the winds did those of the upper air. 
 
 Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks, 
 Were bent and tangled aoruss the walks, 
 And the lealless net-work of panusite bowers 
 Massed into ruin ; and all sweet flowers.
 
 480 Shelley, 
 
 For Winter came : the wind was his whip : 
 One choppy finger was on his lip : 
 He had torn the cataracts from the hills 
 And they clanked at his girdle like manacles. 
 
 His breath was a chain which without a sound 
 
 The earth, the air, and the water bound ; 
 
 He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot throne 
 
 By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 
 
 Then the weeds which were forms of living death 
 
 Fled from the frost to the earth beneath : 
 
 Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
 
 Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 
 
 And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
 The moles and the doormice died for want : 
 The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air, 
 And were caught in the branches naked and bare. 
 
 First there came down a thawing rain, 
 And its full drops froze on the boughs again, 
 Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
 Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; 
 
 And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
 
 Like a wolf tliat had smelt a dead child out, 
 
 Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy and stiff. 
 
 And snapped tliem off with his rigid grip. 
 
 When winter had gone, and spring came back, 
 
 The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 
 
 But the mandi-akes, and toadstools, and docks and darnels 
 
 Pose like the dead from their ruined charnels." 
 
 Many of Shelley's Odes and detached pieces are inexpressibly 
 beautiful. Among otliers the Cloud, is full of wild and picturesque 
 imagery. The following are two passages from this poem : 
 
 " I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear the light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In the noon-day dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that awaken 
 
 The sweet birds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 * )( * * 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water, 
 
 And the n\irsling of the sky ;
 
 Shelley. 481 
 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 
 
 I cliangp, but I cannot die. 
 I'^or after the niin when witli never a stnin, 
 
 The pavilion of lieaven is bare, 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, 
 
 ]>iiild np tlie bhie dome of air, 
 I silently langh at my own cenotapJa, 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
 
 I arise and unbuild it again." 
 
 The Woodman and the Niglitiiigale,\s another of Shelley's most 
 beautiful minor poems. The following passage will at once char- 
 acterize it. 
 
 " And so this man returned with axe and saw 
 At evening close from killing the tall tree. 
 The soul of whom by nature's gentle lawn 
 
 Was each a wood-Tiyinph, and kept ever green 
 The pavement and the roof of the wild copse, 
 Chequering tlie sunlight of the blue serene 
 
 With jagged leaves, and from the forest tops 
 Singing the winds to sleep or weeping oft 
 Fast showers of aerial water drops 
 
 fnto their mother's bosom, sweet and soft, 
 Nature's \i\wo tears which have no Intterness; 
 Arouiid the cradles of the birds aloft 
 
 They spread themselves into tlio loveliness 
 
 Of fun-like leaves, and over palin flowers 
 
 Hang like moist clouds : or, where high branches kiss, 
 
 Make a green space among the silent bower, 
 Like a vast fane in a metropolis, 
 Surrounded by the columns and the towers 
 
 All over-wrought with branch-like traceries 
 In which tliere is religion and the mute 
 Persuasion of unkindled melodies, 
 
 Odours and gleams and murmurs, which the lute 
 Of the blind i)ilot spirit of the blast 
 Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute. 
 
 Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has past 
 
 'J'o such brief unison as on the brain 
 
 One tone, which never can recur, has cast, 
 
 One accent never to return again.'' 
 The Ode to ///( West Jr/;/d.\s ccju.-ij in tlow oflanguage and melody 
 to any poem of its Idnti in this poet's writings. Take, for instance, 
 the musical llow which is contained in the following verses.
 
 482 Shelley, 
 
 " If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 
 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than thou, O, uncontrollable ! If even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 
 The comrade of my wanderings over heaven. 
 
 As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
 
 Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er have striven 
 
 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
 Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
 One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud, 
 
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
 The timiult of thy mighty harmonies 
 
 Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 
 Sweet thou in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
 My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 
 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
 Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ! 
 And, by the incantation of this verse. 
 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguishable hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
 Be through my lips to unawakened earth 
 
 The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind, 
 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ?" 
 
 All of these minor poems might equally be quoted in point of 
 poetic excellence ; they each exhibit the peculiar genius recogniz- 
 able in all this poet's works, large and small. The little poem, 
 Love^ s Philosophy , is one of the purest and tenderest gems that ever 
 flowed from mind or heart of poet. We will conclude this poet's 
 work by quoting it. 
 
 "The fountains mingle with the river, 
 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 The winds of heaven mix for ever 
 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Notliing in the world is single. 
 
 All things by a law divine 
 In OTtp another's being mingle 
 
 Why not I with thine? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
 And the waves clasp one another ;
 
 Keats. 483 
 
 No sister flower could be forgiven 
 If it disdained its brother : 
 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea, 
 
 What are all these kisses worth, 
 If thou kiss not me ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIIL 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 Keats. Keats' poems show a beautiful immaturity, and when 
 we have finished reading them, we are left with an unsatisfied 
 feeling of what the glorious aspirant could and would have done, 
 with a longer span of life, and astonishment that so much was actu 
 ally accomplished by one so young. Byron says, "he is a loss 
 to literature ; and the more so, as he himself before his death is 
 said to have been persuaded that he had not taken the right line, 
 and was reforming his style upon the more classical models of the 
 language." We can see in the advance of his poems, how the true 
 and high prompting of art became clearer and clearer, and more 
 immediate and certain his response to them. 
 
 The primary element of Keats' poetry is enjoyment, and it has 
 been observed, " his very melancholy is the luxury of sadness, his 
 despair, the drained and reversed cup of ecstasy." One of the 
 most remarkable features in his poems, is the wonderful pro- 
 fusion of figurative language. Shaw, in his remarks upon Keats, 
 has exhibited with great truth and nicety of language, his peculiar 
 qualities. He says, " The peculiarity of Shelley's style, to which 
 we may give the name of iiicatcnatioii, Keats carries to extra- 
 vagance one word, one image, one rhyme suggests another, till 
 we quite lose sight of the original idea, which ib' smothered in 
 its own sweet luxuriance, like a bee stilled in honey.'' And in con- 
 trasting tliis ]5cculiarity of language with Shakespeare and his 
 school upon whose manner Keats undoubtedly endeavoured to 
 form his style the same writer compares tlie difference in their
 
 484 Keats. 
 
 treatment of the thought and image, in the following remark, 
 
 "with them the images are produced by a force acting ab intra ; 
 
 like wild flowers springing from the very richness of the ground: 
 
 in Keats the force acts ab extra ; the flowers are forcibly fixed in 
 
 the earth, as in the garden of a child, who cannot wait till they 
 
 grow there of themselves." 
 
 Keats longest poem is Endymion. Like most of his other poems 
 
 it is full of figurative language, which is sometimes very beautiful, 
 
 but at other times forced, and merely fantastical. Many passages of 
 
 great beauty might be selected from this poem as examples. The 
 
 following address to the Moon, is written in very elegant language. 
 
 " What is there in thee, Moon I that thou shouldst move 
 My heart so potently? When yet a child, 
 I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled. 
 Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went 
 From eve to morn across the firmanent. 
 No apples would I gather from the tree, 
 Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously : 
 No tumbling water ever spake romance, 
 But when mine eyes with tliine thereon could dance : 
 No woods were green enough, no bower divine, 
 Until thou lifted'st up thine e)-elids fine : 
 In sowing-time ne'er would I dil:)ble take, 
 Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; 
 And, in the summer-tide of Ijlossoming, 
 No one but thee hatli heard me bUthely sing, 
 And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 
 No melody was like a passing spright, 
 If it went not to solemnize thy reign. 
 Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 
 By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end ; 
 And as 1 grew in years, still didst thou blend 
 With all thy ardours : thou wast the deep glen ; 
 'J.'hou wast the mountain-top the sage's pen 
 The poet's harp the voice of friends the sun ; 
 Thou wast the river thou wast glory won ; 
 Thou wast my c'arion's blast thou wast my steed 
 My goblet full of wine my to past deed :-- 
 Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon ! 
 O what a wild and harmonised tune, 
 My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 
 Onsume bright essence could I lean, and lull 
 Myself to immortalily : I prest 
 Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 
 But gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss
 
 Keats. 485 
 
 My strange love came Felicity's abyss ! 
 
 She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away 
 
 Yet not entirely ; no, thy starry sway 
 
 Has been an under-passion to this hour. 
 
 Now I begin to feel thine orljy power 
 
 Is. coming fresh upon me. O be kind ! 
 
 Keep back thine influence, do not blind 
 
 My sovereign vision. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees 
 Feel palpitations when thou lookest in : 
 O Afoon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 
 The wliile they feel thine airy fellowship. 
 Thou dost IjIcss everywhere, with silver lip 
 Kissing dead tilings to life. The sleeping kine, 
 CouchM in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : 
 Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, 
 Ambitious for the haUowing of thine eyes ; 
 And yet tliy lienediction passeth not 
 One obscure hiding-place, one lilte spot, 
 Wliere jjleasure may be sent : the nested wren 
 Has thy fair face witliin its tranquil ken. 
 And from beneatli a sheltering ivy leaf 
 Take glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief 
 To the poor patient oyster where it sleeps, 
 Within its pearly house ; the mighty deeps, 
 The monstrous sea is thine the myriad sea ! 
 O Moon ! far spooming Ocean bows to thee, 
 And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load." 
 
 The opening of this poem is also exceedingly beautiful, and 
 
 would alone, amply illustrate the poetic genius of Keats. 
 
 " A thing of fjcauty is a joy for ever : 
 Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, antl quiet breathing. 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
 A llowery !)an(l to bind us to the earth, 
 .Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
 Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
 Of all the unlicahliy and o'cr-darken"d ways 
 Made for our searching; yes. in spite of all. 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the ]iall 
 From our daik spirits. Such the ."un, ihu moon, 
 Trees old and young, sprouting a >hady boon 
 For simple sheep, and such are daffodils 
 NA'iili the green world they li\e in ; and clear rills 
 That for themselves a cooling covert make 
 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake,
 
 486 Keats. 
 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
 We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or read ; 
 An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
 Pouring unto us from heaven's brink. 
 Not do we merely feel the essences 
 For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
 That whisper round a temple become soon 
 Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon. 
 The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
 Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
 Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
 That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast. 
 They alway must be with us, or we die." 
 
 Or again the following stanzas, which are full of the sweetest 
 
 poetry, and written in versification at once pathetic and mournful. 
 
 " O Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips ? 
 
 To give maiden blushes 
 
 To the white rose bushes 
 Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 
 
 O Sorrow I 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? 
 
 To give the glow-worm light ? 
 
 Or, on a moonless night. 
 To tinge, on syren shores, the salt-sea spry ? 
 
 O Sorrow! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? 
 
 To give at evening pale 
 
 Unto the nightingale. 
 That thou mayst listen the cold dews among ? 
 
 O Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? 
 
 A lover would not tread 
 
 A cowslip on the head, 
 Thought he should dance from eve to peep of day 
 
 Nor any drooping flower 
 
 Held sacred for thy bower; 
 Wherever he may sport himself and play, 
 
 Sorrow ! 
 
 1 bade good morrow, 
 
 And thought to leave her far away behind ;
 
 Keats. 487 
 
 But cheerly, cheerly, 
 
 She loves me dearly ; 
 She is so constant to me, and so kind : 
 
 I would deceive her, 
 
 And so leave her, 
 But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 
 
 Beneath my palm trees, by the riverside, 
 I sat a weeping ; in the whole world wide 
 There was no one to ask me why I wept 
 
 And so T kept 
 Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 
 
 Cold as my fears. 
 
 Beneath my palm-trees, by the riverside 
 T sat a weeping : what enamour'd bride. 
 Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 
 
 But hides and shrouds 
 Beneath dark palm-trees by a riverside ? 
 
 
 Come then, Sorrow 
 
 Sweetest Sorrow ! 
 Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 
 
 I thought to leave thee, 
 
 And deceive thee, 
 But now of all the world I love thee best. 
 
 There is not one. 
 
 No, no, not one 
 But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 
 Thou art her mother, 
 
 And her Ijrother, 
 Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade." 
 
 One of Keats' greatest powers of poetry is exhibited in the man- 
 ner in which he has treated the classical mythology, representing 
 the Pagan deities not as mere abstraction of art, but endowing 
 them with feelings and passions like ourselves, idealised and purified 
 according with the golden atmosphere of primccval existence, and 
 the lovely scenery of ancient Greece and Italy. It is a truly 
 original merit for which alone he deserves the highest praise. In 
 the verses on a Grecian Unt, there is a beautiful illustration of 
 this, and with the beautiful strain of imagery, there is combined a 
 perception of hixuriant and delicate loveliness. 
 
 " Tliou still unravish'd hridc of quietness I 
 Thou fostcr-cliihl of Silence and slow Time, 
 Sylvan liistDrinn, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowei7 tale more sweetly than our rhyme ;
 
 488 Keats. 
 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 
 Of deities of mortals, or of both, 
 
 In Tenipe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 
 What men or gods are these ? what maidens loath ? 
 What mad pursuit ? What stuggle to escape ? 
 W'hat pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 ^re sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, jjlay on ; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
 Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve ; 
 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu ; 
 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied. 
 For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
 
 More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
 For ever panting and for e^'er young ; 
 
 All breathing human passion far above. 
 
 That leaves a high heart sorrowful and cloy'd, ^ 
 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that lieifer lowing at the skies, 
 
 And all the silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
 What little town by river or sea -shore, 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel 
 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
 And. little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return, 
 
 O attic shape. Fair attitude ! with brede 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
 Thou silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
 
 As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste, 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
 
 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty' that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all age ye need to know." 
 
 Isabella is a sweetly written poem, based upon an anecdote from 
 
 Boccaccio, as may be seen in the following.
 
 Keats. 489 
 
 " O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 
 
 Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon 
 And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 
 
 And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
 And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 
 
 Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, 
 For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
 The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 
 
 Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
 
 Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
 Their is no other crime, no mad assail 
 
 To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet : 
 But it is done succeed the verse or fail 
 
 To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; 
 To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 
 An echo of thee in the north-wind sung." 
 
 The following verses from this poem, will rank amongst the 
 
 choicest passages in Keats' works. 
 
 " O Melancholy, linger hero awhile ! 
 
 O .Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
 O Echo, Echo, (Voni some sombro i;de. 
 
 Unknown, I^etiiean, sigh to us O sigh ! 
 Spirits in grief, lift up your iieads, and smile ; 
 
 Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily. 
 And make a palo liglit in your cypress glooms, 
 Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 
 
 Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 
 
 From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 
 Through bronzefl lyre in tragic order go, 
 
 .Vnd toucli the strings into a mystery; 
 Sound mournfully upon the wii\ds and low, 
 
 ['"or simple Isabel is soon to be 
 Among the dead : She withers, like a palm 
 Cut i>y an Indian for its juicy balm. 
 
 O leave the palm to wither by itself; 
 
 Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! 
 It may not be those Bai'dites of pelf, 
 
 Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
 From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf. 
 
 Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower 
 Of youth and beauty should 1)6 thrown aside, 
 Ey one march'il out to be a Noble's bride." 
 
 In this tteatment of mythological subjects, Keats e.xccls; and in 
 
 his more modern poems there is an inferiority in the descriptions 
 
 of personages and scenery. There is not the deep, intense passion; 
 
 But they contain a prettiness and simplicity which renders them
 
 490 Keats. 
 
 interesting and pleasing. The Eve of St. Agnes, is one of the 
 best examples from this kind of poems : it is a tale full of rich 
 description and romantic interest, and has in it many fine parts. 
 For an example the following stanzas may be read. 
 
 " 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blow sleet : 
 'This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline.' 
 'Tis dark : the ice gusts still rave and beat : 
 ' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. 
 Cruel! what traitor could thee iiither bring? 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing 
 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing. 
 
 'My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ! 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed ? 
 Ah, silvei' shrine, here will I take my rest 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famish'd pilgrim, saved by miracle 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
 Saving of the sweet self ; if thou think'st well 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude intidel ! 
 
 ' Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land. 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 Arise arise! the morning is at hand; 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed : 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
 There are no ears to iiear, or eyes to see, 
 Drown'd all in Ehenish and tlie sleepy mead : 
 Awake ! arise I my love, and fearless be. 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.' 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
 The arras, rich witli horseman, hawk, and hound, 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gushy floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoins, into the wide hall ! 
 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ;
 
 Moore. 491 
 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : ' 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 
 
 And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
 Of witch, and demon, and large cofRn-worm, 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
 Died palsy-twit ch'cl, with meagre face deform; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For age unsought for slept among his ashes cold," 
 
 Amongst the Sonnets of this poet the best is that written On 
 
 visiting the Tomb of Burns. 
 
 "The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, 
 The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, 
 Though beautiful, cold strange -as in a dream, 
 I dreamed long ago, now new begun. 
 The short-lived, paly Summer is but won 
 From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam ; 
 Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam : 
 All is cold IJeauty ; pain is never done: 
 For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, 
 The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue 
 Sickly imagination and sick pride 
 Cast wan upon it I Burns ! with honoiu- due 
 I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide 
 Thy face ; I sin against thy native skies." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 Moore. Moore's chief characteristics as a poet, are invention 
 lively and pointed expression, and an elaljorate sentimentality. He 
 is remarkable for the felicity with which he ilkistratcs his fancy by 
 alhisions drawn from the most remote and unexpected sources, 
 which is often productive of considerable pleasure to the reader. 
 There is a charm and tenderness about Moore's poems, but they 
 do not exhibit that intense feeling which distingushes the works of 
 such poets as Byron and Shelley. -Still his poems are perfect in 
 their peculiar manner ; the same fancy and wit per\-ades almost
 
 492 Moore. 
 
 every page, and there are to be found many luxuriant descriptions, 
 and genuine gushes of poetical sentiment. 
 
 The longest and most important of Moore's poems is an oriental 
 tale, entitled Lalla Rookh. Upon this poem Moore has lavished 
 great splendour of imagination, and immense stores of Eastern 
 reading ; and the details of scenery, manners and ceremonial, are 
 replete with the richest Asiatic imagery. The plan of the tale intro- 
 duces four poems, of a narrative character ; the Veiled Prophet, the 
 Fire Worshippers, Paradise and the Teri, and the Light of the 
 Harem. The same gorgeous splendour and unvarying richness of 
 painting are the qualities of each. There is a want of reality in 
 the characters of the first of these tales; the agonized and intense 
 feeling thrown into it, has the appearance of being far-fetched. It 
 is written in heroic verse, a powerful species of writing over which 
 Moore was scarcely master; and though the imagery in many parts 
 is rich, and the descriptions excjuisitely drawn, the poet's genius is 
 exhibited more in the songs and lyrics which are occasionally in- 
 terspersed, than in the narrative portion of the work. The scene 
 where Azim is introduced to a kind of foretaste of the joys of 
 Paradise, is one of the best of these lyrics. 
 
 " There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 
 
 And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; 
 In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, 
 To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song, 
 
 That bower and its music I never forget, 
 
 But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, 
 
 I think Is the nightingale singing there yet ? 
 
 And the roses still bright by the calm Bcndemeer ? 
 
 No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, 
 
 But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone 
 
 And a dew was distill'd from the flowers they gave 
 All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. 
 
 Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies. 
 An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 
 
 Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 
 Is that ])ower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer ?" 
 
 Or the following, which is as equally beautit'ully written as the 
 
 former, illustrates this. Moore's chief excellence, in fact, lies in his 
 
 power over lyric verse.
 
 Moore. 493 
 
 "A spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh 
 Is burning now through earth and air ; 
 Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, 
 Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there I 
 
 His breath is the soul of flowers like these, 
 
 And his floating eyes oh ! they resemble 
 Blue water-lilies, when the breeze 
 
 Is making the stream around them tremble ! 
 
 Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power, 
 
 Spirit of Love, Spirit" of Bliss ! 
 Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, 
 
 And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. 
 
 By the fair and brave, 
 
 Who blushing unite 
 Like the sun and wave 
 
 When they meet at night ! 
 
 By the tear that shows 
 
 When passion is nigh, 
 As the rain-drop flows 
 
 From the heat of the sky I 
 
 By the first love-beat 
 
 Of the youthful heart, 
 ]5y the bliss to meet, 
 
 And the pain to part ! 
 
 By all that thou hast 
 
 To mortals given, 
 Which oh ! could it last, 
 
 This earth were heaven ! 
 
 We call thee hither, entrancing power ! 
 
 Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss ! 
 The holiest time is the moonlight hour, 
 
 And there never was moonlight so sweet as this." 
 
 The yirc Worshippers also, the second tale introduced in this 
 poeiT), contains several striking and animated descriptions, but 
 does not nearly vie with the former. It is written in the irregular 
 versitlcation first introduced by Scott and Byron. Paradise and 
 the Peri, is much superior, and is worked out with great variety 
 and picturesquencss of detail. Many of the scenes are very beau- 
 tiful, especially those in which the exiled fairy seeks for the gift 
 which is to secure her readmission to Heaven. The poem open in 
 following manner, 
 
 " One morn a Peri at the gate 
 Of Eden stood tlisconsolate ;
 
 494 Moore. 
 
 And as she listened to the Springs 
 
 Of Life within, like music flowing 
 And caught the light upon her wings 
 
 Through the half-open portal glowing, 
 She wept to think her recreant race 
 Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 
 ***** 
 The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
 The gates of Light beheld her weeping ; 
 And as she nearer drew and listen'd 
 To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd 
 Within his eyelids, like the spray 
 
 From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
 On the blue flower, which Brahmins say 
 
 Blooms nowhere but in Paradise ! 
 
 'Nymph of a fair but erring line ! ' 
 Gently he said 'One hope is thine. 
 'Tis written in the book of Fate, 
 
 The Peri yet may be forgiven 
 Who brings to this Eternal gate 
 
 The G^ft that is most dear to Heaven ! 
 Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin : 
 'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in ! ' " 
 
 The Peri first offers successively as her passport into Heaven, 
 
 the last drop of blood shed by a patriot, and the dying sigh of a 
 
 self-devoted lover, but these are pronounced insufficient, And the 
 
 following passage, in which she offers at last the tear of a penitent 
 
 sinner, which is received by the guardian of the heavenly portal, as 
 
 "the gift that is most dear to Heaven ;'' is earnestly and fancifully 
 
 represented. 
 
 ' ' But hark ! the vesper call to prayer. 
 
 As slow the orb of daylight sets. 
 Is rising sweetly on the air, 
 
 From Syria's thousand minarets! 
 The boy has started from the bed 
 Of flowers, where he had laid his head. 
 And down upon the fragrant sod 
 
 Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 
 Lisping the eternal name of God 
 
 From Purity's own cherub mouth. 
 And looking while his hands and eyes 
 Are lifted to the glowing skies. 
 Like a stray babe of Paradise, 
 Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
 And seeking for its home again !
 
 Moore. 496 
 
 Oh, 'twas a sight that Heaven that child 
 A scene which might have well beguiled 
 Even haughty Eblis of a sigh 
 For glories lost and peace gone by ! 
 
 And how felt he, the wretched Man, 
 
 Reclining there while memory ran 
 
 O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
 
 Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, 
 
 Nor found one sunny resting-place, 
 
 Nor broi'ght him back one branch of grace ! 
 
 'There 'i.vas a time,' he said, in mild 
 
 Heart-humbled tones thou blessed child ! 
 
 When, young and haply pure as thou, 
 
 I look'd and pray'd liUe thee but now' 
 
 He hung his head each nobler aim 
 
 And hope and feeling, which had slept 
 From boyhood's hour, that instant came 
 
 Fresh o'er him, and he wept he wept ! 
 
 Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 
 
 In whose benign, redeeming flow 
 Is felt the first, the only sense 
 
 Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 
 
 'There's a drop,' said the Peri, 'thai down from the moon 
 
 Falls through the withering airs of June 
 
 Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power, 
 
 So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour 
 
 That drop descends, contagion dies. 
 
 And health reanimates earth and skies : 
 
 Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin. 
 
 The precious tears of rej^entancc fall ? 
 Thougli foul thy fiery plagues within. 
 
 One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all !' 
 
 And now behold him kneeling there 
 
 By the child's side, in humble prayer. 
 
 While the same sumbeam shines upon 
 
 The guilty and the guiltless one, 
 
 And liymns of joy ])roclaim tlirough Heaven 
 
 Tlie triumph of a .Soul l'\M'given I 
 
 'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
 
 While on their knees llicy linger'd yet, 
 
 There fell a light, more lovely far 
 
 Than ever came from sun or star, 
 
 Upon the tear that, warm and meek, 
 
 1 )ew'(l that, repentant sinner's cheek. 
 
 To mortal eye this light might seem 
 
 A northern flash or meteor iieam 
 
 But well th' enraptured Peri knew 
 
 'Twas a brii^ht smile the Angel threw 
 
 From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
 
 496 Moore. 
 
 Her harbinger of glory near ! 
 
 'Joy, joy for ever ! my task is done- 
 The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won ! 
 Oh ! am I not happy? I am, I am 
 
 To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad 
 Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam, 
 
 And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad 
 
 'Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die, '\ 
 Passing away like a lover's sigh ; 
 My feast is now of the Tooba tree, 
 Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! 
 
 'Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone 
 In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief ; 
 
 Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have blown, 
 
 To the love-tree spring by Alla's throne, 
 Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf? 
 
 Joy, joy for ever ! my task is done 
 
 The <3rates are pass'd, and Heaven is won ! '" 
 
 The last of these tales, the Light of the Harem,\s a little narrative 
 sweetly related, and containing many beautiful descriptions. That 
 of the fair flower-sorceress, Namouna, is the most richly drawn. 
 
 "Hence it is, too, that Nourmahal, 
 
 Amid the luxuries of this hour, 
 Far from the joyous festival, 
 
 Sits in her own sequester'd bower, 
 With no one near, to soothe or aid. 
 But that inspired and wondrous maid 
 Namouna, the Enchantress ; one 
 O'er whom his race the golden sun 
 For unremembei-'d years has run, 
 Yet never saw her blooming brow 
 Younger or fairer than 'tis now. 
 Nay, rather as the west- wind's sigh 
 Freshens the flower it passes by, 
 Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er 
 To leave her lovelier than before. 
 Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, 
 And when, as oft, she spoke or sung 
 Of other worlds, there came a light 
 From her dark eyes so strangely bright, 
 That all believed nor man nor earth 
 Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! 
 * * * * 
 
 With what delight th' enchantress views 
 So many buds, bathed with the dews 
 And beams of that blessed hour ! her glance 
 
 Spoke something past all mortal pleasures,
 
 Moore. 49< 
 
 As, in a kind of holy trance, 
 
 She hung above those fragrant treasures, 
 lending to drink their bahiiy airs, 
 As if she rnix'd her soul with theirs. 
 And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed 
 From flowers and scented flame that fed 
 Her cliarm'd life for none !iad e'er 
 I'eheld her taste of mortal fare. 
 Nor ever in aught earthly dip. 
 But the morn's dew, her roseate lip." 
 
 The following beautiful Invocation also occurs in this passage: 
 
 "I know where the winged visions dwell 
 That around the night-bed play ; 
 I know each herb and floweret's bell, 
 Where they hide their wings by day. 
 Then hasten we, maid, 
 To twine our Ijraid 
 To morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
 
 The image of love, that nightly flies 
 
 To v-isit the bashful maid, 
 Steals from tlie jasnaine flower, that sighs 
 
 Its soul, like her, in the shade. 
 Tlie dream of a future, happier hour, 
 
 Tliat aliglits on misery's brow ; 
 Sjirings out of the silvery almond-fl(jwer, 
 
 Tliat blooms on a leafless bough. 
 Then hasten we, maid, 
 To twine our braid, 
 To morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
 
 The visions, that oft to worldly eyes 
 
 The glitter of mines unfold 
 Inliabit the mountain-herb, that dyes 
 
 Tlic tooth of tlie fawn like gold. 
 The pliantom s]iaj)es oh t(MicIi not them 
 
 Tliat appal the murderer's siglit, 
 Lurk in tlie fleslily mandrake's stem. 
 That slirieks wlien torn at night ! 
 Tlien hasten we, maid. 
 To twine our l)rai(l, 
 To-morrow tlic dieams and tlie flowei's will fade. 
 
 The dream of tlie injured, patient mind, 
 
 Tliat siuilos at the wrongs of men, 
 Is found ni the bruised and woumlcd rind 
 (.Jf the cinnamon, sweetest tiien ! 
 Then liaston we. maid, 
 To twine our braid, 
 To-niorro\v the th-eauis and flowers will fade." 
 
 The Odes of .-/;/(?t7(V;/ arc faillifully translated; tlic following
 
 498 Moore. 
 
 will show the animation and spirit which the poet has thrown into 
 
 them : 
 
 " The women tell me every day 
 That all my bloom has passed away. 
 'Behold,' the pretty creatures cry 
 'Behold this mirror with a sigh 1 
 The locks upon thy brow are few, 
 And, like the rest, they're withering too !' 
 ^Yhether decline has thinn'd my hair, 
 I'm sure I neither know nor care ! 
 But this I know, and this I feel, 
 'As onward to my tomb I steal, 
 That still as death approaches nearer, 
 The joys of life are sweeter, dearer ; 
 And had I but an hour to live, 
 That little hour to bliss I'd give ! " 
 
 In the Odes and Epistles, there may be seen that same ready 
 
 invention which forms a prominent part of the genius of this poet ; 
 
 btit there is also the same voluptuousness of sentiment, the result 
 
 of a too lively fancy, and which is carried sometimes beyond the 
 
 bounds of good taste, and even delicacy. The following, Written 
 
 on passing Deadman^s Island, is among the best of the Odes, 
 
 "See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, 
 Fast gliding along, a gloomy bark ? 
 Her sails are full, though the wind is still, 
 And there blows not a breath her sails to fill ! 
 
 Oh ! what doth that vessel of darkness bear ? 
 The silent calm of the grave is there, 
 Save now and again a death-knell rung. 
 And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung ! 
 
 There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore 
 
 Of cold and pitiless Labrador ; 
 
 Where, under the moon, upon the mounts of frost 
 
 Full many a mariner's bones are lost ! 
 
 Yon shadowj' bark hath been to that wreck, 
 And the dim blue fire that lights her deck 
 Doth play on as pale and livid a crew 
 As ever yet drank the churchyard dew I 
 
 To Dead-man's Isle, in the eye of the blast. 
 To Dead-man's Isle, she speeds her fast ; 
 By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd, 
 And the hand that steers is not of this world ! 
 
 Oh I hurry thee on oh ! hurry thee on 
 Thou terrible bark ! ere the night be gone, 
 Nor let morning look on so foul a sight 
 As would lilanch for ever lier rosy light !"
 
 Thomson, 499 
 
 The Irish Melodies, which form the principal of Moore's poems, 
 are also the poems upon which his reputation chiefly rests. The 
 Songs which this work comprises, are characterized by refined 
 gaiety and brilliant fancy, but partake nothing of the profound and 
 stirring passages, and the tenderness, for which Burn's will always 
 stand unrivalled. The versification of these songs, however, as 
 never been surpassed for melody, and the language, which is always 
 clear and appropriate, sometimes rises to the height of majesty 
 and tenderness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Thomson. Thomson was a follower of the original poetry which 
 had been substituted by the continental style, and of which Addison 
 was the consummation, and his Seasons affords one of the best 
 specimens of this style. It is written in blank verse, and describes 
 the various natural appearances of the year, in an exceedingly rich, 
 though heavy style of language. In this particular style of writing 
 Thomson is entitled to a praise of the highest kind : namely, his 
 original mode of thinking and of expressing his thoughts. He 
 thinks in a peculiar train, and bethinks always as a man of genius : 
 he looks round on nature and life, with the eye which nature 
 bestows only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes in everything 
 presented to his view, whatever there is on which imagination can 
 be detained, and with a mind that at once comprehends tlie vast, 
 and attends equally to the minute. The reader of the jr^(rj-<?;/i- won- 
 ders that he never saw before what Thomson shows him, and that 
 he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. It is one of the 
 works in which blank verse seems properly used. Thomson's wide 
 expansion of general views, and his enumerations of circum- 
 stantial varieties, would have been obstructed and embarassed by 
 the frequent intersection of the sense, which are the necessary
 
 500 Thomson. 
 
 effects of rhyme. His charming descriptions of Sunset, Evening, 
 and Night would lose their beauty; were the same language and 
 ideas be expressed in the form of rhyme. His descriptions of 
 extended scenes and general effects, bring before us the whole 
 magnificence of nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gaity 
 of Spring, the splendour of Summer, the tranciuility of Autumn, 
 and the horror of Winter, take in their turns possession of the 
 mind. We are lead through the appearances of things, as they 
 are successively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and the poet 
 imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts 
 expand with his imagery, and kindle with his sentiments. Nothing 
 can be more magnificently drawn, or conceived than the contrast 
 shown in the various seasons, as they follow in their natural order. 
 Each description forms a lasting picture, marvellously and truth- 
 fully delineated, such as no imagination could ever conceive. 
 His diction is in the highest degree florid and luxuriant, such as 
 may be said to be his images and thoughts, "both their lustre and 
 their shade ;"such as invest them with splendour, through which 
 perhaps they are not always easily discerned. It is too exuberant, 
 and sometimes may be charged with filling the car more than the 
 mind. 
 
 The Seasons is the most capital descriptive poem in our own, 
 and perhaps in any language, ancient and modern. Possessed of 
 a feeling heart, and a warm imagination, Thomson, enamoured of 
 nature, painted her with the enthusiasm of a lover, who had been 
 admitted to the enjoyment of her beauties. His work is replete 
 with picturesque imagery, and in such a splendid assembkige of 
 charms, it is difflcult to select one more captivating than another. 
 We see nothing throughout but the most brilliant reflections of 
 delightful nature, and a perfect delineation of tlie most beautiful 
 objects and scenery. The following will not only afford examples 
 of his verse and expression, but also as illustrations of the reality 
 and truth of that which he writes. The follo\\ing from Spring is 
 a delightful passage, and exliibits all the truth of painting for 
 which Thomson is admired.
 
 Thomson. 501 
 
 -Hark, how loud the woods 
 
 Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. 
 Lend me your song, ye nightingales I oh pour 
 The mazy running soul of melody, 
 Into my varied verse ! while I deduce, 
 From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, 
 The symphony of Spring, and touch the theme 
 Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves. 
 
 When first the soul of love is sent abroad, 
 Warm tlirough the vital air, and on the heart 
 Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin 
 In gallant tliought to plume the painted wing, 
 And try again the long-forgotten strain ; 
 At first faint-warbled : but no sooner grows 
 The soft infusion prevalent, and wide. 
 Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows 
 In music unconfin'd. Up springs the lark, 
 Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn : 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts 
 Calls up the tuneful nations. Ev'ry copse 
 Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
 Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads. 
 Of the coy choristers tliat lodge within, 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
 And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng 
 Sui)erior heard, run througli the sweetest length 
 Of notes ; when list'ning Pliilomela designs 
 To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 
 Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
 The Ijlackbird wliistles from the thorny brake ; 
 Tlie mellow bull iinch answers from the grove : 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the flow'ring furze 
 Pour'd out profusely, silent. JoinVl to these, 
 Innum'rous songsters, in tlie fresli'ning shade 
 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
 Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, 
 And eacli liarsh pipe tlisconlant heard alone, 
 Aid the full concert ; while llie stock-dove Ijreatlies 
 A melincholy murmur tlirough the whole. 
 
 "J'is lo\'e creates their melody, and all 
 This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
 That, e'en to birds and beasts the tender arts. 
 Of pleasing tcaclies. Hence the ghs>y kind 
 Try ev'iy winning way in\ciuive lo\e 
 Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates 
 Pour f )rth llieir little si.uls." 
 
 Smniiwr, which comprises the second part of this poem, contains 
 
 the following passage which is described with a truth and simplicity
 
 502 Thomson. 
 
 not to be paralleled ; conveying to the imagination many cranquil 
 and peaceful thoughts. It may be read as one of the finest pas- 
 sages of the whole poem. 
 
 "Now swarms tlie village o'er the jovial mead: 
 The rustic youlh, brown with meridian toil, 
 Healthful and strong ; full as the summer-rose, 
 lilown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid, 
 Half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all 
 Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek. 
 E'en stooping age is here ; and infmt hands 
 Trail the long rake, or with the fragrant load 
 O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll. 
 Wide flies the tedded grain : all in a row 
 Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field, 
 They spread their breathing harvest to the sun, 
 That throws refreshful round a rural smell : 
 Or, as they rake the green appearing ground, 
 And drive the dusky wave along the mead, 
 The russet hay cock rises thick behind, 
 In order gay. While heard from dale to dale, 
 Waking horn the breeze, resounds the blended voice 
 Of happy labour, love, and social glee." 
 
 In the third part, the poet describes the tranquility of Autumn, 
 with its decline, brightened by the joys of harvest ; adorned with 
 numerous digressions, reflecting the morals to be gathered from it. 
 From this part; the following passage cannot be sufficiently ad- 
 mired, and the beautiful description of the charms of Lavinia with 
 which the passage begins is beautifully drawn. 
 
 "The lovely Lavinia once had friends; 
 And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth. 
 For, in her helpless years deprived of all, 
 Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, 
 She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, 
 And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd. 
 Among the windings of a woody vale : 
 iBy solitude and deep surrounding shades, 
 I!ut more by bashful modesty, conccal'd. 
 Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn 
 Which virtue, sunk to poverl)', would meet 
 From giddy passion and low-minded pride : 
 Almost on nature's common bounty fed ; 
 Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, 
 Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. 
 Her form was fresher than the morning-rose, 
 When the dew wets its leaves ; unstain'd and pure, 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow.
 
 Thomson. 503 
 
 The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, 
 Still on the ground dejected, darting all 
 Their humid beams into the blooming flowers : 
 Or when the mournful tale her mother told, 
 Of what her faitliless fortune promis'd once, 
 Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star 
 Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace 
 Sat fair-proportion'd on her polished limbs, 
 Veiled in a simple robe, their best attire, 
 Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
 ]5ut is when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. 
 Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, 
 Recluse amitl the close-embowering woods. 
 As in the hollow breast of Aj'ipenine, 
 Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 
 A myrtle rises, far from human eye, 
 And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; 
 So flourish'd, blooming, and unseen by all. 
 The sweet I.avinia ; till, at length, compell'd 
 By strong necessity's supreme command. 
 With smiling patience in her looks, she went 
 I'o glean Paleuion's fields. The pride of swains 
 Palemon was, the generous, and the rich ; 
 Who letl the rural life in all its joy 
 And" elegance, such as Arcadian song 
 Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times, 
 When tyrant customs had not shackled man, 
 But free to follow nature was the mode. 
 He tlicn, his fancy with autumnal scenes 
 Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper-train 
 To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye ; 
 Unconscious of her power, and turning quick 
 With unaffected blushes from his gaze : 
 lie saw her charming, but he saw not half 
 The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd, 
 That very moment love and chaste ilesire 
 Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown : 
 For still the world prevail'tl, and its dread laugh, 
 Which scarce the fuin philosopher can scorn, 
 SlKjuld his heart own a gleaner in the field : 
 And thus in secret to his soul he sighed : 
 
 'What jnly ! that so delicate a form. 
 By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense 
 And more than vulgar goodness seems to dwell, 
 Should be devoted to the rude embrace 
 Of some indecent clown I she hjoks, melhinks, 
 Of old Acasio's line ; and to my mind 
 Recalls that patron of my hajipy life, 
 I'"rom whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; 
 Now to the dust gone down ; his houses, lands,
 
 504 Thomson. 
 
 And once fair spreading family, dissolv'd. 
 
 'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat, 
 
 Urg'd by remembrance sad, and decent pride, 
 
 Far from those scenes which knew their better days, 
 
 His aged widow and his daughter live, 
 
 ^Yhom yet my fruitless search could never find. 
 
 Eomantic wish ! would this the daughter were ! 
 
 When, strict enquiring, from herself he found 
 She was the same, the daughter of his friend, 
 Of bountiful Acasto ; who can speak 
 The mingled passions that surpris'd liis heart, 
 And through his nerves in shivering transport ran? 
 Then blaz'd his smother'd flame, avow'd and bold ; 
 And as he view'd her, ardent o'er and o'er, 
 Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once. 
 Confus'd, and frighten'd at his sudden tears, 
 Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom 
 As thus Palemon, passionate and just, 
 Pour'd out the pious rapture of his soul : 
 
 'And art thou then Acasto's dear remains ? 
 She, whom my restless gratitude has sought 
 So long in vain ? O heaven ! the very same. 
 The softened image of my noble friend ; 
 Alive his every look, his every feature, 
 More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring! 
 Thou sole surviving blossom from the root 
 That nourish'd up my fortune ! say, ah, where, 
 In what sequestered desert, hast thou drawn 
 The kindest aspect of delighted heaven? 
 Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair ; 
 Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain. 
 Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years? 
 O let me now, into a richer soil. 
 Transplant the safe \ where vernal suns and showers, 
 Diffuse their warmest, largest influence : 
 And of my garden be the pride and joy ! ' " 
 
 And last of all, the stern horror of Winter, contrasting entirely in 
 
 its language and description to its sister seasons, but thrown up in 
 
 equal, if not in still more vivid language. In the foreground of the 
 
 desolate drawing the poet has thrown forth the figure of a man 
 
 perishing among the driving snows, which might be quoted as the 
 
 most interesting passage of this part of the poem. 
 
 "As thus the snows arise ; and foul, and fierce. 
 All Winter drives along the darkened air ; 
 In his own loosc-rc\olving fields the swain 
 Disastered stands, sees other hills ascend. 
 Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes, 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain :
 
 Thomson, 505 
 
 Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
 
 Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
 
 From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 
 
 Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 
 
 Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 
 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 
 
 In many a vain attempt. J low sinks his soul ! 
 
 What hlaclv despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
 
 Wlien for the dusky spot, which fancy feigned 
 
 His tufted cottage rising tlirougli tlie snow, 
 
 lie meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
 
 Far from the track, and blest abode of man ; 
 
 While round him night resistless closes fast, 
 
 And every tempest, howling o'er his head, 
 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind 
 
 Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
 
 A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ; 
 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, 
 
 Smoothed up with snow ; and, what is land unknown, 
 
 What water of the still unfrozen spring, 
 
 In the loose march or solitary lake, 
 
 Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
 
 These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks 
 
 Beneath the shelter af the shapeless drift, 
 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death : 
 
 Mixed with the tender anguish Nature shoots 
 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man. 
 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
 
 In vain for him th' officious wife prepares 
 
 The fire fxii-hlazing, and the vestment warm, 
 
 In vain his little children, jieeping out 
 
 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, 
 
 With tears of heartless innocence. Alas ! 
 
 Nor wife, nor chiKlren, more shall he behold ; 
 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
 
 The ileadly Winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; 
 
 And, o"er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
 
 Lays him along the snows, a sliltcned corse ! 
 
 Stretched out mvX bleaciiing in the northern blast." 
 
 Of the Other of Thomson's poems there is little occasion to speak. 
 
 Though beautirul examples of poetry, they do not approach in merit 
 
 to the St'iisons. That which stands next in importance to this, 
 
 however, is 'r/w Ctis/'r of Iiidoh-iic<\ a good and accurate poem, 
 
 but which we are toKl was many years under his liand. The First 
 
 canto opens asccne of lazy luxury, which at once fills the imagination, 
 
 "In lowly (l.ilc, fist by a ri\er's side, 
 With woolly hill o'er hill cncouipass'd round, 
 A most enchanting wizard did abide.
 
 606 Tlwmson. 
 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found. 
 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
 
 And there a Season atween June and May, 
 
 Half prankt with spring, with summer half inbrown'd, 
 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
 
 No living wight could work, nor cared e'en for play. 
 
 Was nought around but images of rest, 
 
 Sleep-soothing gi^oves, and quiet lawns between, 
 
 And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest 
 
 From popies breath'd, and beds of pleasant green. 
 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 
 Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, 
 
 And hurl'd everywhere their waters sheen, 
 
 That, as they bicker'd thro' the sunny glade, 
 
 Tho' restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 
 
 Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills. 
 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale. 
 
 And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, 
 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
 
 And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, 
 
 Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, 
 
 That drowsy rustled to the fighting gale ; 
 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
 
 Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
 
 A sable, silent, solemn, forest stood. 
 
 Where, nought but shadowy forms was seen to move. 
 
 As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood ; 
 
 And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
 
 Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro. 
 
 Sent f&.th a sleepy horror thro' the blood ; 
 
 And where this valley winded out, below, 
 
 The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
 
 Of Dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
 
 And of gay Castles in the cloud that pass, 
 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky ; 
 
 There eke the soft Delights, that witchingly 
 
 Instil a wanton sweetness thro' the breast, 
 
 And the calm Pleasures, always hover'd nigh ; 
 
 But ^\ hate'er smack'd of noyance or unrest 
 
 Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest." 
 
 The poem of Liberty, in which Thomson compares our well 
 regulated government with that of other nations, is interesting 
 from the correctness of its particulars. In this work the poet en- 
 deavours to show by what means the glorious freedom we enjoy 
 may be preserved, and how it may be abused or lost. The poem
 
 Burns. 507 
 
 opens with the following pathetic lament upon the death of the 
 
 Honourable W. Chas. Talbot, who was the companion of Thomson 
 
 during his travels. 
 
 " O my lamented Talbot ! while with thee 
 The Muse gay-rov'd the glad Hesperian round, 
 And drew the inspiring breath of ancient arts, 
 Ah ! little thought she her returning verse 
 Should sing her darling suljject to thy shade. 
 And does the mystic veil from mortal beam 
 Involve those eyes where every virtue smil'd, 
 And all thy father's candid spirit shone ? 
 The light of reason, pure, without a cloud ; 
 Full of the generous heart, the mild regard, 
 Honour disdaining blemish, cordial faith, 
 And limpid truth, that looks the very soul. 
 But to the death of mighty nations turn 
 My strain ; be there absorpt the private tear." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Burns. The greatest Scotch poet, beyond all comparison, is 
 Robert Burns. His poems exhibit the most exquisite tendernesss, 
 the broadest and yet most refined humour ; the most powerful 
 though delicate perception of natural beauty, with the highest finish 
 and the easiest negligence of style. He paints with the sharp and 
 infallible touch of Homer or of Shakespeare, and amid the wildest 
 ebullitions of gaiety he has thoughts that sound the very abysses of 
 the heart. His writings are chiefly lyric, consisting of songs of 
 inimitable beauty, but he has also produced works either of a 
 narrative or satirical character, and in some of which the lyric is 
 interposed with the descriptive. The humour of Burns is of tlie 
 richest kind; and he possesses the rarer quality of combining with 
 this humour in many cases, the most profound pathos, while at other 
 times we find this humour united with the highest powers of the 
 imagination. An excellent instance of this is to be found in the 
 Address to the Dcil, one of the happiest of his productions, in which 
 this peculiarity may be seen in almost every stanza of the poem. 
 He commences by reproaching this terrible being with all his
 
 508 Burns. 
 
 "doings" and misdeeds, and in language of infinite softness, asks 
 
 him what pleasure he ^can take in tormenting poor miserable 
 
 sinners. 
 
 " O Thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
 Aiilcl Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
 Wha in yon cavern grim and scotie, 
 
 Closed under hatches 
 Spairges about the brunstaiie cootie. 
 
 To Bcaud poor wretches. 
 
 Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
 An' let poor damned bodies bo ; 
 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
 
 E'en to a deil, 
 To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me. 
 
 An' hear us squeel ! 
 
 Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
 Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
 An' tho' yon lowin heugh's tliy bame, 
 
 Thou travels tar ; 
 An' faith ! thou's neitber lag nor lame, 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur, 
 
 Whyles, ranging like a ronrin lion, 
 For prey, a' boles an corners tryin ; 
 Whyles on the strong-wiiig'd tempest flyin, 
 
 Tirliiig the kirks ; 
 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 
 
 Unseen thou lurks. 
 
 I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
 In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
 Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 
 
 Nod to the moon. 
 Ye fright the nightly wand'rers wav, 
 
 \Vi' eldritch croon. 
 
 When twiligbt did my Grannie summon, 
 To say ber prayers, douce, honest woman 
 Aft yont the dyke she's lieard you bummin, 
 
 Wi' eerie drone ; 
 Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, 
 
 Wi' heavy gi"oan. 
 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
 
 The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 
 
 Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 
 
 Ayont tbf lough ; 
 Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 
 
 Wi' waving sugb. 
 
 The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
 
 Burns. 509 
 
 When wi' an eldritch stour, quafck quaick 
 
 Ainang tlie springs, 
 Awa ye squatter'd, like a dnike, 
 
 On wbistling wings. 
 * * * * 
 
 But, fare you weel, auld 'Nickie-ben! 
 O wad ye tak a thought an' niea ' ! 
 Ye aiblius might I dinna ken 
 
 Still hae a stake 
 I'm woe to think upo' yon den, 
 
 Ev'en for your sake ! " 
 
 Burns' descriptive powers, whether the objects on which they are 
 
 employed be comic or serious, animate or inanimate, are of the 
 
 light order. In the Tiua Dogs we get a remarkable instance of this. 
 
 His plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment on the 
 
 lower classes of society, by showing that their superiors are neither 
 
 better nor happier than themselves, which he executes in the form 
 
 of a dialogue between two dogs. It is an elaborate comparison 
 
 between the relative degree of virtue and happiness granted to the 
 
 rich and poor. The first dog, Ccssar, is a dog of condition, and 
 
 is thus described, 
 
 " His hair, his size, his moutli, his lugs, 
 Show'd he was nanc o' ScotlHiul's dogs : 
 But whalpit some jilace far abroad, 
 Where sailoi-s gang (o fish for cod. 
 
 His Idckfd, li'Ufi-"d, braw bi'ass collar, 
 Slicwd him the genih'man and scholar ; 
 But thougli lie was o' liigii degree, 
 The lient a pride nae pride had he ; 
 But wad hai' spent an hour caressin, 
 Ev'en wi' a tinker's gypsey's messin." 
 
 The other Lnat/i, although a "ploughman's collie," is a cur of a 
 
 good heart, and a sound understanding. 
 
 'Jle was a gash an' i'aitlifu' tyke. 
 As ever lap a shcugii or dyke. 
 His holH>st, sonsic, i)aws'nt lace, 
 Ayi' gat iiim friends in ilka [ilaeo. 
 His bi-east was white, his liiwzie b:ick 
 Weel clad wi' coal o' glossy hlnek ; 
 His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
 Hung o'er his hurdles wi" a swirl.'' 
 
 Their gambols before they sit down to moralize arc described 
 
 with ancc^ual degtee of happiness and superiority of poetical excel-
 
 610 Burns. 
 
 lence. And throughout the dialogue, it (will be seen how the 
 
 character, as well as the different condition of the two speakers, is 
 
 kept in view. 
 
 " Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
 An' unco pack an' thick thegitber ; 
 Wi' social nose wbjles snufl"d and snowkit ; 
 Wbyles mice an' moudieworts they bowkit ; 
 Wbyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
 An' worry'd itber in diversion ; 
 Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
 Upon a knowe tbey sat tbera down, 
 And there began a lang digression 
 About the lords d the creation.'" 
 
 The poems concludes with the following exquisite description. 
 " By this, tbe sun was out o' sight, 
 An' darker gloaming brought the night ; 
 Tbe bum -clock bumm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
 The kye stood rowtin i' tbe loan ; 
 
 When up tbey gat, and shook their lugs, 
 Eejoic'd tbey werena men but dogs ; 
 An' each took afF bis several way, 
 Eesolv'd to meet some itber day." 
 
 In the poems entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, and the Brigs 
 of Ayr, there is to be seen the same remarkable conbination of 
 humourous and picturesque description, with thoughtful moralizing 
 upon life and society, and the deepest insight into the human heart. 
 The latter of these poems is a dialogue between the Old and New 
 Bridges of Ayr; in which Burns himself is the auditor. The time 
 and occasion on which it occured is related with great circumstan- 
 tiality. The poet "pressed by care," or ''inspired by whim,'' has 
 left his bed and wandered out alone in the darkness and solitude 
 of a winter night, to the mouth of the river, where the stillness is 
 interrupted only by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. 
 
 " 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
 Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
 Ae night, within tbe ancient brugb of Ayr, 
 By wbim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' caro ; 
 fie left bis bed, and took his wayward route, 
 And down by Simpsons wbeel'd tbe left about : 
 (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
 To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
 Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
 He wander'd out he knew, not where nor why :) 
 Tbe drowsy Dungeon clock had number'd two,
 
 Burns. 511 
 
 And Wallace Tow'r had sworn the fact was true : 
 The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen sounding roar, 
 Through the still night dnsh'd hoarse along the shore." 
 
 In this situation, the listening bard hears the "clanging sigh," 
 of wings moving through the air, and speedly perceives two beings 
 reared, the one on the Old the other on the New Bridge. It is thus 
 beautifully drawn. 
 
 " All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee : 
 
 The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree ; 
 
 The chilly frost, beneath tiie silver beam, 
 
 Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream. 
 When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bnrd, 
 
 Tiie clanging sugh o' whistling wings is heard ; 
 
 Twa dusky forms dart thro' tiie midnight air, 
 
 Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare ; 
 
 Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
 
 The ither flutters owre the rising piers. 
 
 Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry 'd 
 
 The sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside." 
 
 Irregular and imperfect as this poem is, it displays equally vi'iih 
 the rest, the poet's various and powerful talents, and reveals to 
 the same extent his unequalled genius. It also affords a striking 
 instance of his being carried beyond his original purpose by the 
 power of his imagination. The scenery is present to his fancy 
 during the whole dialogue, and at length it suggests to him a fairy 
 dance of aerial being under the beams of the moon, with which the 
 poem closes. Both this, and the description of midnight, are 
 magnificent specimens of real poetry. 
 
 The longest and most remarkable of Burns' poems is Tam d' 
 Shantcr. In it is there is combined with the most brilliant descrip- 
 tive power, and most touching pathos, a wild fancy, and a humour 
 of the quaintest, sliest style. Burns possesses that rare power of 
 giving ahuman interest to material objects, a quality to be seen only 
 in poets of the highest order. He also brings into contact the 
 familiar with the ideal, and combines the broadest humour with the 
 most profound pathos. The j)assage where the ruined kirk of 
 Alloway is described as being lighted up, and Tam stealing close 
 to the window, and looking in, witnesses the sabbath of the witches, 
 is described by the poet with an inimitable mixture of grotesque 
 humour and fantastic horror.
 
 512 Burns. 
 
 "By this time he was cross the ford, 
 Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd 
 And past the birks and meikle stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 And thro' the whins, and bv the cairn, 
 Wlisire hunters f'and the murder'd bairn ; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
 Whare ]\hiii^^ds mither hang'd hersel. 
 Before him Doon pours all her floods ; 
 The doubling storm roars tliro' the woods ; 
 The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
 Near and more near tiie thunders roll ; 
 Wlien, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 Kirk-y] llozoay seeni'd in a bleeze ; 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
 And loud i-esounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 Inspiring bold Johji Ba7-leycorn ! 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
 Wi' usquebae, we'll face the uevil ! 
 The swats sae ream'd in Taniinic's noddle, 
 Fair play, he car'dna deils a boddle. 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
 Till, by the heel and hand admom'sh'd, 
 She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
 And, vow ! 7(7OT saw an unco sight ! 
 Warlocks and witclies in a dance ; 
 Kae cotillion brent new frae Fi'ance, 
 But hornpipes, jigs, siraf hsjieys, and reels, 
 Put life and mettle in their lieels. 
 A winnock bunker in the east, 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
 A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
 To gie them music was his charge : 
 He screw'd the pipes, and gart tliem skirl, 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 
 Cofllns stood round like open presses, 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
 Each in its cauld liand held a light, 
 By wliich heroic Tain was able 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
 Twa s])an-lang. wee, unchristen'd bairns: 
 K thief, new-culti'd li-ae a i-ape, 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did giipc ; 
 five tomahawks, wi' bhiid i'( cl rusted; 
 Five seimitai-s, wi' murd<'r crusted : 
 A garter, which a babe had slranglrd ; 
 A knii'e, a father's throat had mangled. 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft.
 
 Biirns. 613 
 
 The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
 Which ev'n to name wad be iinlawt'ii'. 
 
 As Taimme growr'd, aniaz'd, and curious, 
 The Miirtli and fun grew fast and furious : 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 They reel'd, they set, tliey cross'd, they cleekit, 
 Till ilka carlin swatand reekir, 
 And coosi her duddics to tlie wark, 
 And linket at it in her siU'k !" 
 
 The same prevailing mixture of pathos and humour, may be 
 
 found in many other of his poems. Ih the Lament for Gleticairn, 
 
 there is breathed throughout the truest expression of sorrow, and 
 
 tenderness. 
 
 " The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 
 
 By fils the sun's departing beam 
 Look'd on tbo fading yellow woods 
 
 That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
 Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 
 
 Laden with years and ineikle pain. 
 In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
 
 Whom death had all untimi^ly ta'en. 
 lie lean'd him to an ancient aik, 
 
 Wiiose trunk was mouhl'ring down with years ; 
 His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 
 
 ITis hoary ciieek was wet wi' tears ! 
 And MS he toucb'd his trembling harp, 
 
 And a lie turn'd his doleful sang. 
 The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 
 
 To echo bore the notes alang. 
 
 'Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. 
 
 The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
 Ye woods that shod on a' the winds, 
 
 I'iie honours of the aged year ! 
 A few siiort months, and .!j;Iad and gay 
 
 y\gain ye'll eiiarm tbo ear and ee ; 
 But noclit in a' i-evolving timo 
 
 Can glailncss bring again to me. 
 
 'I am a bending ag' d tree. 
 
 That, loni; lias stood the wind and rain ; 
 But now has eome a cruel blast. 
 
 And my last boblofearth is gane : 
 Nae leaf o' mine sb;ill greet the .-])ring, 
 
 iS'ae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
 But I maim lie before I be storm. 
 
 And itliers plant them in my room.
 
 514 Bums. 
 
 And last (the sum of a' my gries !) 
 
 My noble master lies in clay; 
 The flow'r amang our barons bold, 
 
 His country's pride, his country's stay ; 
 
 In weary beiiig now I pine, 
 
 For a' the lite of life is dead, 
 And hope has left my aged ken. 
 
 On forward wing for ever fled. 
 
 'Awake thy last sad Toice, my harp ! 
 
 The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
 A'nake, resound thy latest lay. 
 
 Then sleep in silence evermair! 
 And thou, my last, best, 0!ily friend, 
 
 That fiUest an untimely tomb. 
 Accept this tribute from the bard 
 
 Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 
 
 'Oh ! why has worth so short a date. 
 
 While villains ripen grey with time? 
 Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 
 
 Fall ill bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
 Why did I live to see that day ? 
 
 A day to me so full of woe ! 
 Oh I had 1 met the mortal shaft 
 
 Which laid my benefactor low ! 
 
 The bridogroom may forget the bride 
 
 Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
 The monarch may forget the crown 
 
 That on his head an hour has been ; 
 The mother may forget the child 
 
 That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
 But 111 remember thee Glencairn, 
 
 And a' that thou hast done for me!'" 
 
 The Cotter's Satiirday Night also contains many very beautiful 
 passages, nor has there ever been a nobler tribute paid to the virtues 
 of the peasant class than has been given by Burns in this poem. 
 The cottager returning from his labours ; the young children 
 running to meet him and clambering round his knee ; the eldest, 
 returning from their weekly labours with the neighbouring farmers, 
 dutifully depositing their little gains with tbeir parents, and receiv- 
 ing their father's blessing and instruction ; are described with a 
 reality never yet surpassed. 
 
 " November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 The f-hort'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the plough ; 
 The black'iiing trains o' craws to their repose;
 
 Burns. 516 
 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, ai\d his hoes, 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant ivee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' fiichterin noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. 
 
 His clean hejirt-stane, his thriftie luifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 An' niaks him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun'. 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest hope, 'Cat^'w Jenny , woman grown, 
 
 In youtlifu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee. 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown. 
 
 Or deposit her sair-wou penny-fee, 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy imfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 
 
 An' each for other's welfare kindly spires : 
 The social liours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet, 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 Tn^ fatJier mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
 
 Tiie younkors a' are warned to obey ; 
 'An' mind their labours wi' an eydent liand. 
 
 An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
 An' oh ! be sure to fear tlie Lord alway ! 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night. 
 Lest in temjiiat ion's path ye gang astray. 
 
 lmpk)re his counsel and assisting might: 
 They never sought in vain tiiat sought the Lord aright!'" 
 
 Then the representation of these humble cottagers forming a 
 
 circle round their hearth, and uniting in the worship of God, is a 
 
 picture the most deeply affecting of any which the rural muse has 
 
 ever presented to the view. 
 
 ' The cheerfu' supiier done, wi' seri()us face, 
 Thev, round tlie ingle, form a circle wide ;
 
 616 Burns. 
 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 
 The big hd -Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid nside, 
 
 His lyart baffets wearing tbin an' bare ; 
 Those strains tbat once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And ^Let us rvorsJiip God !' he says, with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune tbeir bearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 Perhaps Dundee s M'ild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, wortby of tbe Tiame : 
 Or noble Elgin beets tbe heav'nward flame. 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotids boly lays : 
 Compar'd with these, Italian thrills are tame; 
 
 The tjckled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Ab7-am was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or AToses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With AmaleJis ungracious progeny; 
 Or how tbe royal bard (W^X groaning lie 
 
 Beneath tlie stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
 Ov Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rai)t Isaiali's wild, serapljic fice ; 
 Or other holy seers tbat tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 Tbe saint, tiie fatber, and tbe Inisband prays : 
 Hope 'springs exulting on triuni]3Lant Ming,' 
 
 Tbat tints tbey all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigb, or sbcd I be bitter tear. 
 Together hynming tbeir Creator s praise, 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere," 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night ^xs without doubt one of the best of 
 
 all Burns' works : it is not only tender and moral, but solemn and 
 
 devotional, and rises at last into a strain of grandeur, which modern 
 
 poetry has never surpassed; and the noble sentiment of patriotism 
 
 with which it concludes, admirably corresponds with the rest of 
 
 the poem. 
 
 " O Scotids! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wisli to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may tliy liardy sons of rustic toil, 
 
 Be blest with healtb, and peace, and sweet content I 
 And, ob ! may Heaven tbeir simple lives prevent 
 
 Froju luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Then, bowe'er craivns and coronets be rent,
 
 Btirns. 517 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 And stand a wall of fire around their"much-lov'd Isle. 
 
 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
 
 That stroam'd thro' Wallaces undaunted heart ! 
 
 Who dar'd so nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
 Or nol)ly die, the second glorious part, 
 
 (The patriot's C^iy peculiarly tliou art, 
 
 His friend, iiispirer, guardian, and reward !) 
 
 never, never, Scotia s realm desert : 
 
 But still {\\Q patriot, and Wxa patriot-bard, 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard I " 
 
 In pastoral poetry, Burns excelled equally as in that of a humour- 
 ous kind, and amongst this class the famous lines Oil Turtitn^^ up 
 a Mouse s Nest ivilh the Plough, and on destroying in the same 
 way a Mountain Daisy, w'xW. ever remain among the chief gems of 
 poetry for tenderness and beauty. The former is one of the hap- 
 piest and most finished of his productions. The descriptive part is 
 admirable ; the moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly out 
 of the occasion. 
 
 '"Woe, sloekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
 O. wiiat a panic's in thy breast ie ! 
 Tliou neednji start awa sjie hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 
 1 wad be laitb to rin an' chiise tljco, 
 
 Wi' murdering ^(7///^ / 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken Kature's social union. 
 An' justifies that ill O])inion, 
 
 Wliicli maks thee startle 
 At me, tliy poor earth-born companion, 
 
 K\\ fcllo^LV-inortal I 
 I doubtna, wiiylcs, but tliou may tliieve; 
 What then? j)oor beast i(% tiiou maun live I 
 A daiiiicii-iikcr in a tliravc 
 
 '8 a snui' rcipiest 
 I'll get a blessiu wi' the lave. 
 
 And never miss't ! 
 Thy wee bit lioiisic, too. in ruin I 
 Its silly wa's the win's ar(> slrrwin ! 
 An' naething, now, to big a new aiie, 
 
 _ O' foggage gi-een ! 
 An' bleak Deooaiber's winds ensuin, 
 
 IJaith snell an' keen ! 
 Thou saw tlie fields l;iid bare an' waste, 
 An' weary winter comiu fast,
 
 518 Burns. 
 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 
 
 Thou thought to dwell, 
 Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 
 
 Out thro' thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
 Has cost thee mony a weary niljble ! 
 Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 
 
 But house or hald, 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld I 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
 In proving foresig/ii may be vain : 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 
 
 Gang aft a-gley, 
 An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 
 
 For promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, conipar'd wi' /ue ! 
 The present only touchelh thee : 
 But, oeh ! I backward cast my ee 
 
 On prospects drear ! 
 Ah' forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I '!tess aji' /ear." 
 
 Another fine specimen of Burns' poetry is the Winter Night, 
 
 and is highly characteristic of the poet's mind. It opens with the 
 
 description of a dreadful storm on a night in winter, during which 
 
 the poet is represented as lying in bed, listening to its howling. 
 
 " List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
 I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
 Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 
 O' winter war, 
 And thro' the drift, deep-lairiug sprattle, 
 Beneath a scar. 
 
 Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
 That, in the merry months o' spi-ing, 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
 
 What comes o' thee ? 
 Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 
 
 An' close thy ee? 
 
 Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
 
 Lone from your savage homes e.xil'd, 
 
 The blood-stain'd roost, and sbee-cote spoil'd, 
 
 My heart forgets. 
 While pityless the tempest wild 
 
 Sore on you beats." 
 
 The manner in which the fury of the elements is compared with 
 
 that of man to his brother man, and the former is found light in the
 
 Burns. 619 
 
 balance;is splendidly conceived, and written with great animation. 
 
 " Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
 ^nd freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
 Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
 Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
 
 More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 
 Vengeful malice, unrepenting. 
 Than heav'n illumin'd man or brother man bestows ! 
 See stern oppression's iron grip, 
 
 Or mad ambition's gory band, 
 Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
 
 Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
 Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale. 
 Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
 How painper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 
 The parasite empoisoning lier ear. 
 With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
 Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
 And eyes the simple rustic hind. 
 
 Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
 A creature of anotlier kind. 
 Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
 Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 
 Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
 With lordly honoui-'s lofty brow. 
 
 The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
 Is there, beneath love's noble name. 
 Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 
 
 To bless himself alone ! 
 Mark maiden-innocence a prey 
 
 To love-pretending snares, 
 This boasted honour turns away. 
 Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
 Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
 Perhaps this hour, in niis'ry's squalid nest, 
 She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
 And with a mother's fenrs shrinks at the rocking blast! 
 
 Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
 Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
 Think, for a moment, on his wretchfd fate, 
 
 Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
 Ill-satisfied keen nature's elarn'rous call, 
 
 Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep. 
 While thro' the ragged rof)f and ehinky wall, 
 Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifly heap! 
 Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
 ^^'he^e guilt and poor misforfime pine I 
 (iuilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
 But shall thy legal rage pursue 
 The wretch, already crushed low
 
 520 Burns, 
 
 By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
 Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
 A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! " 
 
 The Songs of Burns are all distinguished by intensity of feeling, 
 
 condensed force, picturesqucness of description, and admirable 
 
 melody and flow. The subjects in all of them, are limited to love, 
 
 patriotism and pleasure. Some of the later songs may be compared 
 
 in polished delicacy with the finest in our language, while in the 
 
 eloquence of sensibility they far surpass them. Many of these 
 
 songs are dramatic, but for the greater part amatory ; but in all, 
 
 the beauties of rural nature are everywhere associated with the 
 
 passions and emotions of the mind. All his natural descriptions 
 
 are such as are to be found in his own country; and in a mountainous 
 
 region, especially when it is comparatively rude and naked, the 
 
 most beautiful scenery will always l^e found in the valleys, and 
 
 on the banks of the wooded streams. There is scarcely a single 
 
 song of Burns, in which particular scenery is not described, or 
 
 allusion made to natural objects, remarkable for beauty or interest. 
 
 Occasionally the genius of Burns rises into strains of uniform 
 
 sublimity. An instance of this kind may be found in the poem 
 
 entitled. Liberty. 
 
 " Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
 Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 
 
 To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
 Wliere is that soul of freedom fled ? 
 Immingled with the mighty dead ! 
 
 Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies I 
 Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 
 
 Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 
 
 Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
 Nor give the coward secret breath. 
 
 Is this the power in freedom's war, 
 
 That wont to bid the battle rage? 
 Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 
 
 Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
 That arm which, nerved witli tijundering fate, 
 
 Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring I 
 One quencli'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
 
 And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless nge," 
 
 Or in his splendid war-song, the Sofig of Death, with which we 
 could scarcely find a comparison.
 
 Scott 621 
 
 " Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 
 
 Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
 Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, 
 
 Our race of existence is run ! 
 Thou grim king of terrors, tliou life's gloomy foe, 
 
 Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
 Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 
 
 No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 
 
 Thou strik'st the dull peasant he sinks in the dark, 
 
 Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
 Thou strik'st the young hero a glorious mark ! 
 
 He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
 
 In the field of proud honour our swords in our hands. 
 
 Our King and our country to save 
 While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 
 
 O ! who would not rest with the brave !" 
 
 Burns has left an important addition to the songs of Scotland. 
 He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his country ; and many of 
 her rivers and mountains formerly unknown to the Muse, are now 
 hallowed by his immortal verse. All his songs exhibit independ- 
 ence of sentiment, as in fact do all his writings. It is difficult to 
 determine the comparative merit of Burns, or to find another, who, 
 while earning his subsistance by daily labour, has written verses 
 which have attracted and retained universal attention, and given 
 Burns a distinguished place among the followers of the muses. The 
 force of Burns lay in the power of his understanding, and in the 
 exquisite sensibility of his heart. He was alive to every species of 
 emotion ; and he is one of the few poets who have at once excelled 
 in humour, tenderness, and sublimity. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 Scott. As a narrative and romantic poet, Scott certainly stands 
 first. His works manifest great knowledge of life and character, 
 quick sympathy with man and nature, flow of invention, variety of 
 presentiment, a heart that vibrates to the noble and right and 
 much picturesqucncss ; these excellencies joined to great readiness 
 of vcrsilication, serve to render his poems at all times interesting
 
 522 Scott. 
 
 and pleasing. There are, notwithstanding, many passages in his 
 poems extremely tame ; and many of his phrases, when you pause 
 upon them, are found to be full of commonplace. 
 
 The reason generally assumed why Scott is little of a literary- 
 poetic artist ; is that he respected his subject much more than his 
 art ; and thus, greatness of expression, the heights and depths of 
 language and of sound, were not much in his way. Scott has al- 
 ways been, and there is no doubt always will be, the poet of 
 youthful and high-hearted readers. Yet he is not, and never can 
 be, the poet of literary readers ; by them he is remembered and 
 admired only as a cherished enchantment of their youth, Scott 
 made no attempt to move the feelings like Campbell, or to awaken 
 meditative thought like Wordsworth, or to kindle religious en- 
 thusiasm like Cowper, or even to lead the mind into wild and 
 supernatural regions like Southey. Neither the minor recesses 
 of thought, nor the high places of art thrill to his appeal. Still, his 
 poetry in its real character, stands unequalled, and forms a distinct 
 epoch in the history of modern literature. In their subjects, their 
 versification, and their treatment his poems are unsurpassed. A 
 modern writer has observed, that " Scott showed a power somewhat 
 akin to that of Shakespeare, in combining into one harmonious 
 whole actions partly borrowed from true history, and partly from 
 imagination ; and in clothing the former with the romantic hues 
 of imagination and picturesque fancy, he showed this superior 
 power no less than in giving to the latter the solidity of truth." The 
 materials of Scott's poems were derived from the legends and exploits 
 of mediceval chivalry, with which he was so wonderfully familiar, 
 and which furnished for him such a mass of striking incident and 
 vivid detail. To this, also, he added extraordinary powers of 
 description, to a degree, in which no poet is superior. The greatest 
 of his poems are the Lay of the Last Minstrel, Mannio/i, and T/ie 
 Lady of the Lake. The interest of the first of these rests mainly 
 upon the style and subject af the poem ; that of Mar^niofi upon the 
 descriptions, and that of the latter upon the incidents. The metre 
 which Scott employs is various, but the principal is that of two,
 
 Scott, 623 
 
 three, or four verses of octosyllabic structure rhyming together, and 
 
 relieved at intervals by a short Adonic verse of six syllables, giving 
 
 at once great vigour and exquisite melody to the poem. The Lay 
 
 of the Last Minstrel, exhibits more of the lyric spirit, and perhaps 
 
 more also of the true fire and glow of inspiration, than either of the 
 
 others : the versification too, is more various; and greater spirit is 
 
 thrown into it than either in Marjnion, or The Lady of the Lake, 
 
 The necromantic agency, the tourney, the raid, and the attack on 
 
 a strong castle, are successively described with equal fire and energy. 
 
 The midnight visit of Deloraine to the wizard's tomb at Melrose 
 
 Abbey, is among the best passages; and is painted with the force 
 
 and picturesqueness of an actual scene. 
 
 "The moon on the east oriel shone, 
 Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 
 
 By foliaged tracery combined ; 
 Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand 
 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand, 
 
 In many a freakish knot, had twined : 
 Then framed a .spell, when the work was done, 
 And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. 
 The silver light, so pale and faint, 
 Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint, 
 
 Whose image on the glass was dyed : 
 Full in the midst, his Cross of Red 
 Triumphant Michael brandished, 
 
 And trampled the a]3ostate's pride. 
 The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane, 
 And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 
 
 They sate them down on a marble stone, 
 
 A Scottish monarch slept below : 
 Thus spoke the M(jnk, in solemn tone : 
 
 'I was not always a man of woe ; 
 For Paynim countries I have trod. 
 And fought beneath the Cross of God : 
 Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, 
 And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear, 
 
 **)(** 
 Before their eyes the Wizard lay 
 As if he had not been dead a day. 
 His lioary beard in silver rolled, 
 He seemed some seventy winters old. 
 
 A pdmer's amice wrapped him round 
 
 With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 
 Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea; 
 His left hand held his 13ook of Mijiht
 
 524 Scott 
 
 A silver cross was in his right : 
 
 The lamp was placed beside his knee ; 
 High and majestic was his look, 
 At which the fellest fiends had shook, 
 And all unruffled was his face ; 
 They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 
 
 Often had William of Deloraine 
 
 Rode through the battle's bloody plain, 
 
 And trampled down the warriors slain, 
 
 And neither known remorse nor awe ; 
 Yet now remorse and awe he owned ; 
 His breath came thick, his head swam round, 
 
 When this strange scene of death he saw. 
 Bewildered and unnerved he stood, 
 And the priest prayed fervently and loud ; 
 With eyes a verted prayed he ; 
 He might not endure the sight to see, 
 Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, 
 
 The night returned in double gloom ; 
 
 For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few ; 
 
 And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew. 
 
 With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 
 
 They hardly might the postern gain. 
 
 'Tis said as through the aisles they passed. 
 
 They heard strange noises on the blast ; 
 
 And through the cloister-galleries small, 
 
 W^hich at mid-height thread the chancel wall, 
 
 Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
 
 And voices unlike the voice of man ; 
 
 As if the fiends kept holiday, 
 
 Because these spells were brought to day. 
 
 I cannot tell how the truth may be ; 
 
 I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 
 
 'Now, hie thee hence,' the Father said, 
 'And when we are on death-bed laid, 
 O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John, 
 Forgive our souls for the deed we have done ! ' 
 The Monk returned him to his cell, 
 
 And many a prayer and penance sped : 
 When the convent met at the noon-tide bell 
 
 The Monk of St. INIary's aisle was dead ! 
 Before the cross was the body laid. 
 With Land clasped fast, as if still he prayed." 
 
 Nothing is more wonderful in Scott's poems, than the complete- 
 ness with which the poet throws himself back into past ages. He 
 seems to speak and think like a minstrel of the fourteenth century. 
 Marmiott, the next most important of this poet's works is of a more
 
 Scott 5 5 
 
 lofty and historical nature than the Lay. One of the finest scenes 
 in it is the immuring of Constance contained in the Second canto, 
 and the description of the Convent. In the introductory prefaces 
 to each canto of this poem, we get an enchanted glimpse into 
 Scott's own rural and family life ; and these passages are not only 
 beautiful in themselves, but they relieve tastefully the monotony of 
 the principal subject. The same may be seen in the fiction of 
 the old Minstrel, who is supposed to recite the Lay for the amuse- 
 ment of the Duchess of Buccleuch. 
 
 The Lady of the Lake differs strongly in subject to the other of 
 his poems. It is said, " In this poem he broke up a new and fertile 
 ground; he brought into contact the wild, half-savage mountaineers 
 of the Highlands, and the refined and chivalrous court of James V." 
 The exquisite scenery of Loch Katrine became, when invested by 
 the magic of the descriptions, the chief object of the traveller's 
 pilgrimage, and it is no exaggeration to say as Macauley has done, 
 that, " the glamour of the great poet's genius has for ever hallowed 
 not only the nature thus first shown in all its loveliness to the curi- 
 osity of the world, but even the barbarous tribes, whose manners 
 Scott has invested with all the charms of fiction." The following 
 lovely passage may be read as an example of the descriptive 
 style, employed in this poem. 
 
 "The Summer dawn's reflected hue 
 To jiurple chanj^eil Loch-Katrine bhie ; 
 Mildly and sofl the western Ijreeze 
 Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees, 
 And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
 Treudjled, but dimpled not for joy ; 
 The mountaiu-shatlows on her breast 
 Were neither broken nor at rest ; 
 In bright uncertainty they lie, 
 Like future joys to I-'ancy's eye. 
 The water-lily to the lic;ht 
 Her chalice reared of silver bri_i;ht ; 
 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 
 Jiegemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn ; 
 The f^^ray misl left the mountain-side, 
 The torrent showed his _t;libteniiig pride ; 
 Invisible in decked sky, 
 The laik >ent dow u her revelry ; 
 The blackbird and the speckled thrush
 
 526 Scott. 
 
 Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ; 
 
 In answer cooed the cushat dove 
 
 Her notes of peace, and rest, and love." 
 
 There are many very fine parts in this poem ; for instance the 
 
 adventures of the disguised king, whose gallant character is very 
 
 finely and dramatically sustained ; and the graceful tenderness of 
 
 Ellen Douglas. And perhaps the finest of all, the description by 
 
 the Highland Bard of the death of the captive chieftain, as he is 
 
 listening to the fiery lay. 
 
 " He nears the isle and lo ! 
 
 His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
 
 Just then a flash of lightning came. 
 
 It tinged the waves and strand with flame ! 
 
 I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame. 
 
 Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
 
 A naked dirk gleamed in her hand : 
 
 It darkened,- but amid the moan 
 
 Of waves, I heard a dying groan ; 
 
 Another flash ! the spearman floats 
 
 A weltering corse beside the boats, 
 
 And the stern matron o'er him stood, 
 
 Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 
 
 'Revenge ! revenge !' the Saxons cried, 
 The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 
 Despite the elemental rage, 
 Again they hurried to engage ; 
 But, ere they closed in desperate fight, 
 Bloody with spurring came a knight, 
 Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, 
 Wav'd 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 
 Clarion and trumpet by his side 
 Rung forth a truce-note high and wide. 
 While, in the monarch's name, afar 
 An herald's voice forbade the war, 
 For Bothwell's lord, and Rhoderick bold, 
 Were both, he said, in captive hold,' 
 
 But here the lay made sudden stand ! 
 The harp escaped the minstrel's hand ! 
 Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 
 How Rhoderick brooked his minstrelsy : 
 At first, the Chieftain, to the chime. 
 With lifted hand, kept time ; 
 That motion ceased, yet feeling strong; 
 "Varied his look as changed the song ; 
 At length, no more his deafened ear 
 The minstrel melody can hear ; 
 His face grows sharp, his liands are clenched, 
 As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched ;
 
 Scott. 627 
 
 Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
 
 Is sternly fixed on vacancy ; 
 
 Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew 
 
 His parting breath, stout Rhoderick Dhu!" 
 
 There are also contained in this poem many very beautiful 
 
 description of Highland scenery and manners. That of the 
 
 Goblin-cave is one of the best. 
 
 "It was a wild and strange retreat, 
 As e'er M-as trod by outlaw's feet. 
 The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
 Yawned like a gash on warrior's breast ; 
 Its trench had stayed full many a rock, 
 Hurled by primeval earthquake shock. 
 From Benvenue's gray summit wild, 
 And here, in random ruin piled, 
 They frowned incumbent o'er the spot, 
 And formed the rugged sylvan grot. 
 The oak and liirch, with mingled shade, 
 At noontide there a twilight made, 
 Unless when short and sudden shone 
 Some str.iggling beam on cliff or stone, 
 With such a glimpse as prophet's eye 
 Gains on thy depths, Futurity. 
 No murmur waked the solemn still, 
 Save tinkling of a fountain rill ; 
 But when the wind chafed with the lake, 
 A sullen sound would upward break, 
 With dashing hollow voice, that spoke 
 The incessant war of wave and rock. 
 Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway, 
 Seemed nodding o'er the cavern gray.' 
 
 Rokcby is more remarkable for its numerous and beautiful des- 
 criptions, and the manner in which the poet has contrasted the 
 individual characters in this work, than for the manner in which 
 the subject is worked out. The splendid description with which 
 the Second canto, opens is equal to any passage of its kind in this 
 
 poet's works. 
 
 "Far in the chambers of the west. 
 The gale had sighed itself to rest ; 
 The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
 Ihit pale, and soon to disap])car. 
 The thin gray clouds waxed dimly light 
 On r.ruslclDn and Houghton heij^ht ; 
 And the ricli dale, that eastward lay. 
 Waited the wakening touch of day. 
 To give its woods, and cultured i>lain, 
 And lowers and sj^irea, tcj light again.
 
 528 Scott 
 
 But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, 
 And Liinedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
 And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
 And Arkingarth, lay dark afar ; 
 While, as a Hvelier twilight falls, 
 Emerge proud Barnard's bannered walls, 
 High crowned he sits, in dawning pale, 
 The sovereign of the lovely vale. 
 
 * * -x- * 
 
 The cliffs that rear their haughty head 
 High o'er the river's darksome bed, 
 Were now all naked, wild, and gray, 
 Now waving all with greenwood spray ; 
 Here trees to every crevice clung. 
 And o'er the dell their branches hung ; 
 And there, all splintered and uneven. 
 The shivered rocks ascend to heaven ; 
 Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast, 
 And wreathed its garland round their crest, 
 Or from the spires bade loosely flare 
 Its tendrils in tlie middle air. 
 j4s pennons wont to wave of old 
 O'er the high feast of ]5aron bold, 
 When revelled loud the feudal rout, 
 And the arched halls returned their shout ; 
 vSuch and more wild is Greta's roar. 
 And such the echoes from her shore. 
 And so the ivied banners' gleam 
 Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream. 
 
 There is the same picturesque power in the poem of the Lord of 
 the Isles, for which Scott is unequalled ; the description of the 
 savage and terrific desolation of the Western Highlands being an 
 astonishing example of this. This poem is also remarkable in an 
 equal degree, for the beauty of its descriptive passages : that of 
 Auiiunn, with which the poem opens can scarcely be passed over 
 without quoting. 
 
 "Autumn departs but still his mantle's fold 
 
 Rests on the groves of noble Somerville ; 
 Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold 
 
 Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ; 
 Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill. 
 
 Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, 
 The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill ; 
 
 And yet some tints of summer splendour tell 
 When the broad sun sinks down on Etlrick's western fell, 
 Autumn departs from Gala's fields no more 
 
 Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer ;
 
 Scott 629 
 
 Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er, 
 No more the distant reapers' mirth we hear. 
 
 The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, 
 
 And liaivest-home hath hushed the clanging wain, 
 
 On the waste hill no forms of life appear, 
 
 Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train. 
 Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. 
 
 Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, 
 
 Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, 
 To see the heath-flower withered on the hill, 
 
 To listen to the woods' expiring lay, 
 To note the red leaf shivering on the spray. 
 
 To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain. 
 On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, 
 
 And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? 
 O ! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain. 
 
 No ! do not scorn, although its hoarser note 
 
 Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie. 
 Though faint its beauties as the tints remote 
 
 That gleam through mist in Autumn's evening sky, 
 And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, 
 
 When wild November hath his bugle wound ; 
 Nor mock my toil a lonely gleaner I, 
 
 Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, 
 Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found." 
 
 This poem finishes with one of those glorious battle-scenes, in 
 which Scott is unsurpassed, and which is too universally known to 
 require quoting in this work. In The Vision of Don Rhoderick, 
 the last important poem, there is the same picturesqueness exhibit- 
 ed as in the others. Of his lyrics the following beautiful song 
 from the Lady of the Lake, is one of the best. 
 
 "The heath this night must be my bed, 
 The bracken curtain for my head, 
 My lullaby the warder's tread. 
 
 Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
 My couch may be my l^loody plaid, 
 My ves]ier song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 
 It will not waken me, Mary ! 
 
 I may not, dare not, fancy now 
 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 
 
 I dare not think uyum thy vow. 
 
 And all it promised me, Mary. 
 No fond regret must Norman know ; 
 When bursts Clan-Aliiine on the foe, 
 His heart must be like bentleil bow, 
 
 His foot like arrow free, Mary.
 
 630 Montgomery. 
 
 A time will come with feeling fraught, 
 For, if I fall in battle fought, 
 Thy ha]iless lover's dying thought 
 
 Shall be a thought on thee, Sfary. 
 And if returned from conquer'd foes,' 
 ilow blithely will the evening close, 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose, 
 
 To my young bride and me, Mary ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI IT. 
 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Montgomery. The works of James Montgomery although 
 melodious and beautiful, exhibit but little power. The character 
 of his mind is rather of delicacy than strength, and he has invested 
 all the objects of his imagination with a tender brilliancy peculiarly 
 his own. Excepting a difference of talent, Montgomery has all 
 the delicacy and high moral toneof Cowpcr, with the same patriotic 
 warmth and enthusiastic love of nature. Like Cowper, too, a tinge 
 of melancholy pervades all his writings, while there is also a resem- 
 blance in the peculiar religious system of that poet. The devotional 
 feeling and mysterious beauty which Montgomery throws around 
 the most ordinary things, is another of the greatest features of his 
 poetry. Speaking of the peculiarity of his poems, a writer says, 
 " We may observe everywhere, how a familiarity with religious 
 subjects tinges the stream of his imagination, and converts the 
 feelings of the mind and the beauties of nature, into reflection and 
 remembrance of the things unseen. To him, the graces and glories 
 of creation appear invested with an awfully sanctity." Montgomery 
 was essentially a religious poet ; and perhaps there are no lyrics in 
 the English language which breathe the same glowing love to God 
 and man, and the same sense of beauty and goodness as these. 
 His chief norks are Tlie Waudet'er of Siuitzcrland, The IVest 
 Indies, The ]]^orId be/ore the Flood, zind Greejilaiid, The former 
 of these is a glowing lyric of Liberty, and denunciation of the 
 diabolical war-spirit of the revolutionary French.
 
 Montgomery. 631 
 
 In the poem, Greenland, Montgomery celebrates the missionary 
 
 labours of the body to which his parents and brothers belonged. 
 
 This poem has in it more striking and beautiful passages than the 
 
 former; as for example, the following passage of the last canto. 
 
 "Comes there no ship again to Greenland's shore? 
 There comes another : there shall come no more ; 
 Nor this shall reach an haven; What are these 
 Stupendous monuments upon the seas ? 
 Works of Oiimipotence, in wondrous forms, 
 Immoveable as the mountains in the storms ? 
 Far as imagination's eye can roll, 
 One range of Alpine glaziers to the polo 
 Flunks the whole eastern coast ; and, branching wide. 
 Arches o'er many a league the indignant tide, 
 That works and frets, with unavailing (low, 
 To mine a i)ass!ige to the beach below ; 
 Thence from its neck that winter yoke to rend, 
 And down the gulf the crashing fragments send. 
 There lies a ressel in tiiis realm of frost, 
 Not wreck'd, nor struiuled, yet for ever lost : 
 Its keel embedded in the solid mass ; 
 Its glistening sails appear expanded glass ; 
 The transverse ropes with pearls enormous strung. 
 The yards with icicles grotesquely hung, 
 Wrapt in tlie topmast shrouds there rests a boy, 
 His old seafaring fatiier's onlyjoy : 
 Sprung from a race of roverti, ocean born 
 Mursed at the helm, he trod dry land witli scorn ; 
 Through fourscore years from port to port he veer'd, 
 Quicksand, nor rock, nor foe, nor tempest fear'd ; 
 Now cast ashore, though like a hulk ho lie, 
 His son at sea is ever in his eye, 
 And his prophetic thought, from age to age, 
 Esteems the waves his offspring's heritage. 
 //( ne'er shall know, in his Norwegian cot, 
 Ifow brief that son's cnreer, how strange his lot ; 
 Writiied round the mast, and sepulchred in air, 
 Ilim sliall no worm devour, no vulture tear; 
 Congi-al'd to adamant, his frame shall last. 
 Though empires change, till time and lide bo past. 
 
 On deck, ill gj oups iinbracin},' as they died, 
 Singly, erect, or slumbering side hy side, 
 B hold till' crew ! They sail'd, with hope elate, 
 For eastern (jreenlaad-till, ensnared l)y fate, 
 In toils tlial inock'd their ulmnst strength and skill, 
 'Jliey felt, as l)y a cliarm, tlieir ship stand still; 
 Tlie madness of the wildest gale that blows 
 Were mercy to tiiat shudder of repose, 
 When withering horror struck from heart to heart
 
 532 Montgomery. 
 
 The blunt rebound of Death's benumbing dai% 
 
 And each, a petrifaction at his post, 
 
 Look'd on jon father, and gave up the ghost : 
 
 He, meekly kneeling, with his hands upraised, 
 
 His beard of driven snow, eyes fixed and glazed. 
 
 Alone among the dead shall yet survive, 
 
 The imperishable dead, that seem alive ; 
 
 The immortal dead, whose spirits, breaking free, 
 
 Bore his last words into eternity. 
 
 While with a seraph's zeal, a Christian's love, 
 
 Till his tongue fail'd, he spoke of joys above. 
 
 Now motionless, amidst the icy air, 
 
 He breathes from marble lips unutter'd prayer. 
 
 The clouds condensed, with dark unbroken hue 
 
 Of stormy purple, overhang his view, 
 
 Save in the west, to which he strains his sight. 
 
 One golden streak, that grows intensely bright. 
 
 Till thence the emergiTig sun, with lightning blaze, 
 
 Pours the whole quiver of his arrowy rays ; 
 
 The smitten rocks to instant dinmond turn. 
 
 And round the expiring saint such visions burn 
 
 As if the gates of Paradise were thrown 
 
 Wide open to receive his soul ; 'tis flown : 
 
 The glory vanishes, and over all 
 
 Cimmerian darkness spreads her funeral pall ! 
 
 Morn shall return, and noon, and eve, and night 
 Meet here with interchanging shade and light : 
 But from this bark no timber shall decay. 
 Of these cold forms no feature pass away ; 
 Perennial ice around the incriisted bow, 
 The peopled deck, and full rigg'd masts, shall grow. 
 Till from the sun himself the whole be hid, 
 Or spied beneath a crystal pyramid ; 
 As in pure amber, with divergent lines, 
 A rugged shell emboss'd with sea-weed shines. 
 From age to age increased with annual snow. 
 This new Mo}it Blanc among the clouds may glow. 
 Whose conic peak, that earliest greets the dawn, 
 And latest from the sun's sliut eye withdrawn. 
 Shall from the zenith, thi-ough incunilient gloom, 
 Biu-n like a lamp upon this naval tomb. 
 But when the archangel's trumpet soinuls on high. 
 The pile shall burst to atoms through tlie sky. 
 And leave its dead, upstarting at the call, 
 Naked and pale, before the Judge of all." 
 
 The West Indn's,\s a heroic poem upon the subject of the aboli- 
 tion of the Slave-trade, and contains several descriptive pieces of 
 the highest merit. The masterly and glowing description of the 
 interior of Africa in the Second part, maybe quoted as an excellent 
 specimen of these.
 
 Montgomery. 53? 
 
 "Regions immense, unsearchable, unknown, 
 Bask in the splendour of the solar zone ; 
 A world of wonders, where creation seems 
 No more the works of Nature, but her dreams ; 
 Great, wild, and beautiful beyond control, 
 She reigns in all the freedom of her soul ; 
 Where none can check her bounty when she showers 
 O'er the gay wilderness her fruits and flowers ; 
 None brave her fury, when, with whirlwind breath, 
 And earthquake step, she walks abroad with death, 
 O'er boundless plains she holds her fiery flight. 
 In terrible magnificence of light ; 
 At blazing noon pursues the evening breeze. 
 Through the dun gloom of realm-o'ershading trees ; 
 Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells. 
 Or bathes in secrecy where Niger swells. 
 An inland ocean, on whose jasper rocks 
 With shells and sea-tlower wreaths she binds her locks : 
 She sleeps on isle of velvet verdure, placed 
 Midst sandy gulfs and shoals for ever waste ; 
 She guides her countless flocks to cherish'd rills, 
 And feeds her cattle on a thousand hills ; 
 Ifer steps the wild bees welcome through the vale, 
 From every blossom that embalms the gale ; 
 The slow unwieldy river-horse she leads 
 Through the deep waters, o'er the pasturing meads ; 
 And climbs the mountains that invade the sky, 
 To soothe the eagle's nestlings when they cry. 
 At sunset, when voracious monsters burst 
 From dreams of blood, awaked by maddening thirst ; 
 When the lorn caves, in which they shunk from light. 
 Ring with wild echoes through the hideous night ; 
 When darkness seems alive ; and all the air 
 Is one tremendous uproar of despair, 
 Horror and agony \- on her they call ; 
 She hears their clamcjur, she provides for all ; 
 Leads the light leopard on his eager way, 
 And goads the gaunt hya;na to his prey," 
 
 The IVorld before tlie Flood also abounds with beatities, and 
 
 gives evidence of the highest and finest powers of imagination. 
 
 Tiic passage in which Jav.in discovers Zillah in the forest, is an 
 
 excellent specimen of this poem. Of the smaller poems of this 
 
 writer, many might be chosen as examples. His Harp of Sorro7u 
 
 is a noble expression of individual feeling; and is written in lan- 
 
 gtiage at once musical and attractive. The following stanzas are 
 
 some of the best. 
 
 " I gave my Harp to Sorrow's hand, 
 
 And ehc has ruled the chords eo long,
 
 534 Montgomery. 
 
 They will not speak at my command ; 
 They warble only to her song. 
 
 or dear departed hours. 
 
 Too fondly loved to last, 
 The dew, the breath, the bloom of flov.ers, 
 
 Snapt in their freshness by the blast ; 
 
 Of long, long years of future care, 
 
 Till lingering Nature yields her breath, 
 
 And endless ages of despair, 
 
 Beyond the judgment day of death : 
 
 The weeping Minstrel sings ; 
 
 And while her numbers flow, 
 My spirit trembles with the strings, 
 
 -ResponsiTe to the notes of wo'e. 
 
 Would gladness move a sprightlier strain, 
 
 And wake this wild harp's clearest tones, 
 The chords, impatient to complain, 
 
 Are dumb, or only utter moans, 
 * * * -x- )( 
 
 O ! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand. 
 
 Hope ! who has been a stranger long ; 
 O ! strike it with sublime command, 
 
 And be the poet's life thy song. 
 
 Of vanish'd troubles sing, 
 
 Of fears for ever fled, 
 Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring, 
 
 And burst and blossom from the dead ; 
 
 Of home, contentment, health, repose, 
 Serene delights, while years increase ; 
 
 And weary life's triumphant close, 
 In some calm sunset hour of peace ; 
 
 Of bliss that reigns above, 
 
 Celestial May of youth, 
 Unchanging as Jehovah's love. 
 
 And everlasting as his truth: 
 
 Sing, heavenly Hope ! and dart thine hand 
 O'er my frail harp, untuned so long ; 
 
 That Harp shall breathe, at tiiy command, 
 Immortal sweetness through thy song, 
 
 Ah ! then, this gloom control. 
 
 And at thy voice shall start 
 A new creation in my soul, 
 
 A native Eden in my heart."
 
 Campbell. 636 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX, 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 Campbell. This poet is best known by his Lyrics, which are 
 the finest in any language, and to which he owes his lasting fame. 
 At the time Campbell wrote, great changes had taken place in the 
 popular taste for poetry. He was one of those writers, who, in 
 spite of the effort and impulsion of the Byronian poetry poetry of 
 passion retained much of the old tone of sentiment, modified of 
 course by the aesthetic principles which were afterwards to be 
 completely embodied in such a cycle of great works as constitute a 
 school of literature. 
 
 Undoubtedly Campbell's mind was not of the eminently poetic 
 order. He shows little innate fertility, or audacity of invention or 
 resource, but his poems have peculiar excellencies, for which they 
 will always find admirers. His principal poem the Pleasures of 
 Hope, a poem of exceeding beauty, is certainly one of the finest 
 sentimental poems in our language. The following passage from 
 tlie first part will amply illustrate its quality and character. 
 
 "jIjO ! at the couch where infant l)eauty sleeps, 
 Iler silent watch the mournful nioll\er keeps ; 
 She, while the lovel)' babe unconscious lies, 
 Smiles on her slumb'ring chikl with pensive eyes, 
 And weaves a song of melancholy joy 
 'Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy: 
 No ling' ring hour of sorrow sliall be thine ; 
 No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine ; 
 Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be 
 In form and soul ; but, ah ! more Idlest than he ! 
 Thy fame, thy wortli, thy filial love, at last, 
 Sliall so(jthe this aching heart for all the past 
 With many a smile my solitude repay, 
 And chase the world's imgenerous scorn away. 
 
 'Aiid say, when summon'd from the world and thee, 
 I lay my head beneath the willow tree, 
 Will thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, 
 And soothe my parted spirit linjf'ring near? 
 Oh, wilt thou come, at ev'nini; hour, to shed 
 'Ihe tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed ; 
 With achiiii; temjiles on thy hand reclin'd. 
 Mu>e on till- last firewcll I leave behind, 
 lireathe a dee[) siL;h to winds that murmur low. 
 And think on all my I<jve, and all my woe?'
 
 536 Campbell 
 
 So speaks afifection, ere the infant eye 
 Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 
 But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim 
 A mother's ear by that endearing name ; 
 Soon as the playful innocent can prove 
 A tear of pity, or a smile of love, 
 Or cons his murm'ring task beneath her care, 
 Or lisps with holy look his ev'ning prayer, 
 Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
 The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; 
 How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, 
 At every artless tear, and every smile ! 
 How glows the joyous parent to desciy 
 A guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! 
 
 Where is the troubled heart, consign'd to share 
 Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, 
 Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray 
 To count the joys of Fortune's better day ! 
 Lo ; nature, life, and liberty relume 
 The dim-ey'd tenant of the dungeon gloom, 
 A long lost friend, or hapless child restor'd, 
 Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board ; 
 Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, 
 And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe." 
 
 In Gertr7cde of Wyojning, his next longest poem, Campbell as- 
 sumes a more gentle and pensive style. This poem also contains 
 many beautifnl passages, sweetly and artistically written of which 
 the following in the second part, is an instance : 
 
 'Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, 
 Where oft the reading hours sweet Glertrude wore ; 
 Tradition had not named its lonely spot, 
 But here (mcthinks) might India's sons explore 
 Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore, 
 Their voice to the great Spirit : rocks sublime ^ 
 
 To human art a sportive semblance bore. 
 And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime. 
 Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time. 
 
 But high in ampitheatre above, 
 His arms the everlasting aloes threw : 
 Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove 
 As if with instinct living spirit grew. 
 Rolling its verdant gulphs of every hue ; 
 And now suspended was the j)lcasing din, 
 Now from a murmur faint it swellVl anew, 
 Like the first note of organ heard within 
 Cathedral aisles, ere yet its symphony begin. 
 
 It was in this lone valley she would charm 
 
 The lingeriiig noon, where flowers a couch had strewn; 
 
 Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm
 
 Campbell, 537 
 
 On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown : 
 
 And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, 
 
 Which every heart of human mould endears ; 
 
 With Shakespeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, 
 
 And no intruding visitation fears, 
 
 To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears." 
 
 The opening of the Third part also gives an equally beautiful 
 
 example of Campbell's writing. 
 
 " Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 Where transport and security entwine, 
 Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 
 And here thou art a god indeed divine. 
 Here shall no forms abridge, no hour confine 
 The views, tlie walks, that boundless joy inspire! 
 Roll on ye days of raptured influence, shine ! 
 Nor. I)lind witli ecstacy's celestial tire, 
 Shall love beliold the spark of earth-born time expire. 
 
 Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove 
 
 And pastoral sa\'anahs they consume ! 
 
 Willie she, beside her jjuslcin'd youth to rove, 
 
 iJclights, in fancifully wild consume, 
 
 Her lovely brow to shade with Indian-plume ; 
 
 And forth in hunter-seeming vest they lare ; 
 
 J'ut not to chase the deer in forest gloom ; 
 
 "Tis l)ut the breath of heaven the blessed air 
 
 And interchange of heart unknown, unseen to share. 
 
 That though the sportive dog oft round them note, 
 
 Or fawn, or wild-l)ird bursting on the wing ; 
 
 ^'el who, in love's own ]iresence, would devote 
 
 To death those gentle throats that wake the spring. 
 
 Or writhinn; from the brook its victim bring? 
 
 No ! nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; 
 
 But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing, 
 
 Accjuaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, 
 
 That shatle even now her Io\'e, and witness'd first her vows 
 
 Now laliyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, 
 Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, 
 Where welcome hills shut out the universe, 
 And pines their lawny walk cncom[)ass round ; 
 There, if a pause deliciims converse found, 
 'Twas but when o'er each heart the idea stole, 
 (Perchance awhile in jny's oblivion drown'd,) 
 'I'liat come wlnt may. while life's grand ]nil.:.es roll, 
 Indis>olul)ly thus -liMuld -.old be knit to soul. 
 
 And in the \i^io:is of romantic youth, 
 W'hnl }-e;iis ofeii.ile.^ lili-s are vet to flow ! 
 ]?ut, inoital ]i!e;i>ine. what art lliou in truth? 
 The torrent's smooiline. ere it dash below I
 
 538 Minor Poets from Cliaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 And must I change my song ? and must I show, 
 
 Sweet Wyoming ! the day when thou wert doom'd, 
 
 Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low ! 
 
 When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd, 
 
 Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloom'd." 
 
 Perhaps the finest part of Campbell's poems, and that in which 
 he excels most, are his patriotic songs, Ye Mariner's of England, 
 The Battle of the Baltic, and The Soldier'' s Dieani. The former 
 well known song is stately and noble, and possesses at the same time 
 the genuine structure and melody of verse which constitutes the 
 truly patriotic; nor would it be easy to find anything which in this 
 respect comes closer to the ideal of a patriotic song. The Battle 
 of the Baltic has the same excellencies ; there is the same glow- 
 ing touch and masterly treatment, which, taken with the theme of 
 the poem, renders it sympathetic to every reader throughout the 
 land, rude or refined. And in the latter The Soldier's Dream, we 
 may see the same true qualities of lyric verse. The beautiful verses 
 on the battle oi Hohcnlinden, ?iX\6. Locliiers JJ'arni/!;ma.y be men- 
 tioned as two of the finest poems of this character: the following 
 lines, with which the latter poem finishes are magnificent. 
 
 " ^Never shall Albion a destiny meet, 
 
 So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 
 
 Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore 
 
 Like ocean-weeds lieap'd on the surf beaten shore, 
 
 Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
 
 While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
 
 Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
 
 With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 
 
 And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
 
 Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame.'" 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 MINOR POETS FROM CHALXER TO ELIZABETH. 
 
 [The spelling in many of the selections from these early poets, has been 
 modernised ; except in passages where such nllevation v.ould have been 
 likely to effect the rhythm of t'; e poetry.] 
 
 Robert of Gloucester. The only poet who lived in this 
 reign, of anv importance, was Robert of Gloucester. He wrote a
 
 Robert de Briuine, 539 
 
 very long poem ; a history of England in verse, from Brutus to the 
 
 reign of Edward I. \vhich,Warton says/'is totally destitute of art or 
 
 imagination." The following passage which describes the sports 
 
 that followed King Arthur's coronation, is quoted as an example 
 
 of this production. 
 
 "Soon after this noblo feast, as right was of such ryde, 
 The knights arrayed tliein about on each side, 
 In fields and in meads to prove her cliivalry. 
 Some with lance, some with sword, without -villainy, 
 Willi playing at tables, others at chequery * 
 
 With casting, otiiers with setting,t others with some other manner, 
 And which so of any game had the mastery, 
 The King him of his gyfteth did largo courtesy. 
 Up the alurs of the castles the ladies then stood. 
 And beheld this noble game, and which knights were good 
 All the three chief days lasted this nobley 
 In halls and in fields of meat and eke of play. 
 These men came the fourth day before the king there, 
 And he gave them lar^'e gifts, every as they worth were 
 Bishoprics and churclies clerks he gave some, 
 And castles and towns, knights that were come." 
 
 Robert de Brunne. Robert Mannyng, commonly called 
 Robert de Brunne, lived at the close of the reign of Edward 1. He 
 translated into English metre, a French work by Grosthead, Bishop 
 of Lincoln, entitled the Manual of Sins, the subject of which treats 
 of the seven deadly sins, illustrated with many legendary stories. 
 The following passage from this poem, is selected from the quota- 
 tion given by Warton in his History of English Poetry. 
 
 "He loved much to hear the liarp. 
 For man's wit it makelli sharp. 
 Next his chamber, beside his study, 
 His harper's chand)er was fast there by. 
 Many times, by nights and (Lays, 
 He had solace of notes and lays : 
 One a^ked liim the reason why, 
 He had delight in minstrelsy? 
 He answered him on this manner, 
 Why lie held the \\:\.v\) so dear. 
 'The virtue of the harp, througli skill and rii^ht, 
 Will destroy the devil'.-, mii^ht ; 
 And to the cross by tiod's 'skill 
 1,-, the harp likened well. 
 'I'herefore, goiid nien, ye shall lere, 
 When ye any Imrper licar. 
 To worship < lod at )-oui- powei', 
 And Da\'id in the ['.waller. 
 
 Clic.-^b. t DiiVcrenl form of clicks p!.<yiii^.
 
 540 Minor Poets from Chaucer of Elizabeth. 
 
 In harp and tabor and symphony 
 Worship God in trumps and saiitre : 
 In chords, in organs, and bells ringing, 
 In all these worship the heavenly king.' ' 
 
 Besides this, he was the author of a metrical chronicle of England, 
 and a translation in English rhyme of the treatise of Cardinal 
 Bonaventure, from the Latin. Warton says of this writer, that "he 
 appeared to possess more industry than genius, and cannot be read 
 with pleasure : yet it should be remembered that uncouth and un- 
 pleasing as he naturally seems, and chiefly employed in turning the 
 theology of his age into rhyme, he contributed to form a style to 
 teach expression, and to polish his native tongue." 
 
 Barbour. This poet, w^ho lived about the year 1350, composed 
 a long poem in eight syllabled verse, commemorating the adven- 
 tures of Robert Bruce. It describes incidents with a graphic force, 
 and contains many beautiful episodes and fine sentimental pas- 
 sages. His apostrophe to Freedom is written with great spirit. 
 
 "Ah ! fredome is a nobill thing I 
 Fredome makes man to have liking ! 
 Fredome all solace to man gives, 
 He lives at ese that frely lives ! 
 A nobill heart may have nane ese, 
 Na ellys nocht that may him plese, 
 Giff fredome faileth ; for fre liking 
 Is yearnyt our all other thing. 
 Na he, that ay has levit free, 
 May nocht knaw weil the propyrle, 
 The angyr, na the wrelchyt dome. 
 That is couplyt to foule thirldome. 
 But gift" he had assayit it. 
 Than all perpeur he suld it wyt ; 
 And sulde think fredome mail' to ]jry.-e, 
 Than all the gold in warld that is." 
 
 GOWER. John Cover was the writer of several moral poems of 
 considerable merit, flis works are tedious, and do not possess the 
 least degree of fancy, passion or wit, but his versification is har- 
 monious, and there is much solid reflection, andahigli moral tone 
 perceivable throughout his poems. D'lsraeli says, '-(icwer stamp- 
 ed with the force of ethical reasoning his smooth rh\ mes ; and this 
 was a near approach to poetry itself!'' His influence as a poet may 
 be summed up in the words of the reliable Warton. He says, "if
 
 Hampole. oil 
 
 Chaucer had not existed, the composition of John Gower, the next 
 
 poet in succession, would alone have been sufficient to rescue the 
 
 reigns of Edward III. and Richard II. from the imputation of 
 
 barbarism." His principal work is the Confessio Amatitis : but he 
 
 also wrote several other large works which were never printed. 
 
 The following quotation is selected from the above poem, and is 
 
 sufficient to illustrate his style and degree of writing. 
 
 " Afler the flood, fro whiche Noah 
 Was saved, the worlde in liis degree 
 Was made as who seith newe again, 
 C)f llower, of fruit, ofgiass, of grain, 
 Of beast, of l)ird, and of mankind, 
 Which ever hath be to God unkind, 
 For nolwitlistanding all the fare, 
 Of tliat this worlde was made so bare, 
 And afterwaixl it was restored, 
 Amont^e the men was nothing moreil 
 Towartl God of good living: 
 liul all was lorned to liking 
 After the flesh, so that foryete 
 Was he, whiche gave them life and mete, 
 Of heaven and earth creator. 
 And thus came forth the great error, 
 That they the high God ne knew, 
 liUt made them oilier gods anew, 
 As thou liast heard me said tofore. 
 Tiiere was no man tliat time l)ore, 
 That lie liad noi after liis clu)iee 
 A god, to whom lie L;.ue his voice 
 Whereof the misljelieA'er came 
 In to llie time of Abraliam ; 
 But he foun<l out the right way. 
 How only men should obey 
 Tiie lii^h (Jod, whiche weldeth alL 
 An<l ever luUli dune, and ever sliail, 
 Jn hcn\en. in earlli, and cl;e in ludl, 
 Tliere is no U>nL;ue lii^ mii;!it may tell. 
 'l'lu> I'alriarciie to hi> biKi;,t' 
 I'lirli.id, ih.it the)' lo none inias^c 
 luu'line >hiuil(l in no wise : 
 I'lUl iier ollicndc and >,iciiiire, 
 Willi all tlirir \\ lie lie hear',-, l.iw, 
 I'nto ihc migliiy (i.ul ab. '\'' 
 'i'iic)' --hohlcii i"iw, and tn no uii.ic." 
 
 HamI'dI,!',. 'i'liis poet's cl.Ue is llx.il about llie \c.ir bib*. II is 
 
 principal poctii il works, .ire a p.iri[ilnMso on tlic 15ook of Job, on 
 
 the Lord's Prayer, and on the seven penctintial pscdnis ; and tlic
 
 542 Minor Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 Prick of Conscience ; all of which, Warton says, "have no tincture 
 
 of sentiment, imagination, or elegance." 
 
 "He that knoweth well and can see 
 What he is, was, and shall be, 
 A wiser man may be told 
 Whether he be young or old 
 Then he that can all other thing 
 And of himself hath no knowing. 
 He may no good know- nor feel 
 Without he first know himself well ; 
 Therefore a man should first lere 
 To know himself properly here, 
 For if he knew himself kindly 
 Then may he know God Almighty ; 
 And on ending think should ho, 
 And on the last day that shall be 
 Know should he what this world is, 
 Full of pomp and lecherousness; 
 And learn to know and think wilhal 
 What shall after this life bcfal 
 Knowing of this should him lead 
 To meet with meekness and with dread: 
 So may he come to good living, 
 And at last to good ending, 
 And?whcn he of this world shall wend 
 Be brought to bliss that has no end." 
 
 Langland. William Langland or Longlande,was the writer of 
 a poem called Piefs Ploivman^s Vision. This work comprises a 
 series of visions, which the poet imagines himself to have seen, 
 while asleep, after a long ramble on IMalvern-Hills in Worces- 
 tershire. In it, Langland satirizes the vices and abuses of nearly 
 every profession, and ridicules the absurdities of superstition and 
 corruptedness of the clergy, with great humour and spirit. There 
 are times, in which in the depths of his emotions, he bursts out into 
 the most beautiful and majestic strains. Hallam says, "there is a 
 real energy in his conceptions, which he caught not from the chim- 
 eras of knight-errantry, but from the actual manners and opinions 
 of his time." The following passage in which the poet is represen- 
 ted in search of Dowell and Doevil will afford a striking specimen 
 of Langland's allegorical satire and description of writing. Many 
 excellent strokes of poetry also, are to be met with. 
 " liy a \sikl wilderness, and by a wood's side, 
 Dliss uf ihe birds,, brought me on sleep,
 
 Lydgaie. 543 
 
 And under a lime on a land, leaned I awhile, 
 
 To list to the lays, the lovely fowls made : 
 
 Mirth of their mouths made me there to sleep. 
 
 The marvellousest dreams, dreamed me then. 
 
 That ever dreamed wight, in world as I went 
 
 A much man as me thought, and like to myself, 
 
 Came and called me, by my own name. 
 
 What art thou quoth I then, thou that my name knowest ? 
 
 That thou wottest well quoth he, and no wight better 
 
 Know I what thou art. THorcuiT said he then, 
 
 I have sought thee this seven years, see ye me not rather? 
 
 Art thou 'nr'ot'c.iiT tjuoth I then, thou could'st me wish 
 
 Where that DoWKM. dwellcth, and do me that to know 
 
 DowEi.T. and Dohetter, and Dohkst the third c[uoth he 
 
 Are three fair virtues, and be not far to find. 
 
 Who so is true of his tongue, and of his two hands 
 
 And through his labour or his load, his livelihood winneth 
 
 And is trusty of his dealing, taketh hut his own 
 
 And is no drunkard nor dedigious, Dowei.l him followi-th 
 
 DoBET doth right thus, and he doth much more. 
 
 He is as low as a lamb, and lovely of speech 
 
 And hclpeth all men, after that him ncedeth ; 
 
 The bags and the bigirdles. he hath broken t'lem all 
 
 That the erle avarous held and his heirs 
 
 And thus to Mammon's money he hath made him frendes 
 
 And is run to religion, and huth rendered'^ the bilile 
 
 And preached to the people. Saint Paul's words. 
 
 Libenter suffertis insii'ieutes cum sitis ijisi sapientes. 
 
 And suffereth the unwise, with you for to live 
 
 And with glad will doth he good, for so god you hoteth. 
 
 Dobest is above both, and beareth a bishop's cross 
 
 Is hooked on that one end to draw men from hell 
 
 A pike is on the potentt to pull down the wicked 
 
 That wayten any wickedness, Uowell to tene 
 
 And Dowell and Dnl)et, amongst them have ordained 
 
 To crown one to be be king, to rule them both 
 
 That if Dowell and Dobet, are against Dobest 
 
 Then shall the king come, and cast them in irons. 
 
 And but if Dobest bid for them, they be there for ever. 
 
 Thus Dowell and Dobet, and Dobest the third 
 
 Crowned one to be king, to keepen them all 
 
 And to rule the realm, by their three wits 
 
 .And none othfM-wise, but as tliey three assented." 
 
 LVDG.VTF.. This poet was contemporary with Chaucer. He is 
 the writer of ntnncrous poems oi every shape .md subject. " No 
 poet," says Warton, "seems to ha\c possessed a greater versality 
 of talents, lie mi.Kes with ecpial ease in every mode of composi- 
 tion. Mis hymns and his ballads, Ii,i\e the s.imc degree of merit: 
 and whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint 
 
 ' 'rr.iiiilatcd.
 
 544 Minor Poets from Chmicer to Elizabeth. 
 
 Austin, or Guy Earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, religious 
 or romantic, an history or an allegory, he writes with facility. His 
 transitions were rapid from works of the most serious and laborious 
 kind to sallies of levity and pieces of popular entertainment. His 
 muse was of universal access ; and he was not only a poet of his 
 monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was in- 
 tended by the company of Goldsmiths, a mask before his majesty 
 at Eltham, a may -game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a 
 mumming before the lord mayor, a procession of pageants from 
 the creation for the festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the 
 coronation, Lydgate was then consulted and gave the poetry." 
 His principal poems are TJie Fall of Prifices, The History of 
 Thebes', The S'/e-e of Troy, and The Life of ojir Lady. Although 
 his poetry is heavy and tedious, there are many passages among his 
 lengthened and numerous productions of exceeding beauty, many 
 natural and true descriptions, finely conceived characters, and 
 smooth verse even to elegance. As an example take his character 
 of Venus, from Tlie Scige of T?-oy, 
 
 "And '^he stant naked in a wavy sea, 
 Environ her Vvith goddesses three, 
 That be assign'd with busy attendance 
 To wait on her and do her observance. 
 And flowers fresh, bkie, red, and white, 
 Be her about, the more for to delight. 
 And on her head she hath a cliaplet 
 Of roses red full pleasantly set, 
 And from the liead down under her foot 
 With sundry gums and ointments sweet 
 She is anointed, sweeter for to smell. 
 And all aloft her, as the poets tell, 
 Be doves white, fleeing, and eke sparrows. 
 And her beside Cupid with his arrows."" 
 
 Or the following passage from the LJfe of our Lady, which is 
 equal in point of beauty to anything of Chaucer, or the contem- 
 porary poets of his time. 
 
 "And saying after on the next night 
 While tliey slept at their lodging place. 
 Came an Angel, ajipearing with great light. 
 And v.arnfd tlieni that they mought ne trace 
 - -Hv Herodes, but tliat they should jsace
 
 James I. 645 
 
 Withouten tarrying, in all the haste they may, 
 To her kingdom by another way. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The Father's voice, as clerkes oft endyte. 
 Came down to earth that men might hear, 
 And like a dove with fair feathers white. 
 The Holy Gliost also did appear 
 And Christ Jesu the Father's son entere, 
 This day appearing in our mortal kind, 
 Was of Saint John baptised as I find. 
 
 And forasmuch as they all three 
 This day were seen by sothfast appearance 
 They l^eing one in perfect unity ; 
 Wherefore this day of most reverence 
 Named is truly in this sentence 
 Theophanos, for Ood in treble wise, 
 Therein appeared as ye have heard devise. 
 
 For theos is as much for to mean 
 
 As God in English, if ye list to see. 
 
 And Phanos, as shewing withouten were, 
 
 As ye have heard aft)re reheaiscd of me ; 
 
 For on earth a God in trinity 
 
 This day appeared withouten any lye, 
 
 Ve truly may it call Thcopliany." 
 
 James I. James I, may be considered as one of the first of the 
 
 few poets that are to be found in the long period that succeeded 
 
 the death of Chaucer. His principal production was a long poem, 
 
 entitled The King's Qiiair, or Book, a collection of love-verses in 
 
 which the poet records his life, and describes the circumstances of 
 
 an attachment which he formed while imprisoned at Windsor Castle, 
 
 for a young English princess whom he saw walking in an adjacent 
 
 garden. This poem consists of one hundred and ninety-seven 
 
 stanzas ; it abounds in allegory, and contains many very powerful 
 
 and pathetic passages. It is written in the richest language, and 
 
 there is an elegance and flow in it, that surpasses any of the earlier 
 
 poets. His other works were Clirist^s Kirk on the Green ^ and 
 
 Pebles to the Play. The following example is from the Kings 
 
 Qi/air, and exhibits all the elegance which distinguished this writer's 
 
 works. 
 
 "Bewailing in my chaml)cr thus alone, 
 Despeired of all joy and vemedye, 
 For-tirit of my thought nnd wo-begone, 
 And to the wyndow gan I walk in hye.
 
 54r> Minor Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 To see the warld and folke that went forbye 
 As for the tjnne though I of mirthis fude, 
 Might have no more, to hike it did me gude. 
 
 Now was there made fast by the Touris wall 
 
 A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set, 
 Ane herbere grene, with wandis long and small, 
 
 Railit about, and so with treis set 
 Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet, 
 
 That lyf was non walkyng there forbye. 
 
 That might within scarce any wight aspye. 
 
 X- ***)( 
 
 And on the small grene twislis sat 
 
 The lytil suete nyghtingale, and song 
 So loud and clere, thejanpnis consecrat 
 
 Of luvis use, now soft and loud among. 
 That all the gardynes and the wallis rung 
 Right of tliaire song, and on the copill next 
 
 Of thaire suete harmony, and lo the text. 
 
 Worshippe aye yt loveris bene this ^fay, 
 
 For of your bliss the kalendis are begonne. 
 And sing with us, away winter away. 
 
 Come somer come, the suete seson and sonne, 
 Awake, for schame ! ye have your hevynis wonne, 
 
 And amorously lift up your hedis all. 
 
 Thank lufe yt list you to his merci call. 
 * * * - * 
 
 And therewith kest I doun myn eye ageyne, 
 
 Quhare as I saw walkyng under the Toure, 
 Full secretely, new cumyn hir to pleyne. 
 
 The fairest or the fresh young floure 
 That ever I sawe, met bought, before that houre. 
 
 For quhich. sodayne abate, anon astert, 
 
 The blude of all my body to my hert. 
 
 And though I stood abaiset tho a lyte, 
 
 No wonder was, for quliy ! my wittis all 
 Were so overcome with plesance and delyte. 
 
 Only through latting of myn eyen fall, 
 That sudaynly my hert become hir thrall. 
 
 For ever of free wyll, for of menace 
 
 There was no takyne in hir suele face." 
 
 OCCLRVE. Thomas Occleve who flourished about the year 1420, 
 was the writer of several poems of considerable merit, though little 
 read now. His principal work is a translation of F.gidius' De Reg- 
 nitm r?'incipi!i!i!, from which the following passage, wiitten to the 
 memory of Chaucer is extracted.
 
 Henryson, 647 
 
 ' ' But weleaye, so in m}'ne herte wo 
 That the honour of English tonge is dede, 
 Of which I wont was han counsel and rede ! 
 A master dere, and fadir reverent, 
 My mayster Chaucer, floure of eloquence, 
 Mirrour of fructuous entendement. 
 O universal fadir in science. 
 Alas that thou thine excellent prudence 
 In thy bed mortel miglitcst not bequethe, 
 What eyled Deth ? Alas why would he eyled thee ! 
 O Dcth that didst nought harm singulere 
 In slaughtre of him, but all the lond it smertith: 
 But nathelesse }it hast thou no powere 
 His name to sle. His hie vertue astertilh 
 Unslayn from thee, which aye us lifely hertith 
 With boke of his ornate enditiiig, 
 That is to all this lond enlumyning," 
 
 It is remarkable that the period which followed Chaucer, namely 
 between the years 1461 and 1509 when there was a want of 
 true English poetry, that Scotland produced a number of genuine 
 poets, who in the words of Warton, "displayed a degree of sentiment 
 and spirit, a command of phraseology and a fertility of imagination, 
 not to be found in any English poet since Chaucer and Lydgate." 
 Henryson, Uunbar and Douglas, were the principal of these. 
 
 Henryson. This poet wrote a series of fables in verse, besides 
 
 several other moral poems. One of the best of his Fables is the 
 
 common story of the Town Mouse and the Country Mouse. The 
 
 following passage the moral with wliich he concluded the fable 
 
 will give an instance of his didactic style : 
 
 " Blessit be simiilc life, withoutcn dreid ; 
 Blessit be sober feist in cpiiete : 
 Who has enf)Ugh of no more has he neid 
 Though it be little into quantite. 
 Great abundance, and blind prosperity, 
 Oft tyniis make ane evil conclusion ; 
 The sweetest life, iherefore, in this counlre, 
 Is of sickerness, with >mall possession." 
 
 Another example of his poetry is to be seen in the following ver- 
 ses, which breathe throughout a truly religious and poetical spirit. 
 
 "Alone, as I went up .\ii<l iluwn 
 In abbey wa> fair lo sec, 
 Thinking what ei>n>olalion 
 Was in adversity ;
 
 548 Minor Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 By chance I cast on side mine, 
 And saw this written on a wall, 
 ' Of what estate, Man, that thou be, 
 Obey, and thank thy God for all.' 
 
 Thy kingdom and thy great empire, 
 Thy royalty, nor rich array, 
 Shall nought endure at thy desire 
 But, as the wind, will wend away: 
 Thy gold and all thy goodis gay, 
 When Fortune list will fra the fall : 
 Sen thou sic samples sees each day, 
 Obey, and thank thy God for all. 
 
 Though thou be blind or have an halt, 
 Or in thy face deformed ill, 
 So it come not by thy default, 
 No man shall thee i-eprove by skill ; 
 Blame not thy Lord, so is his will ; 
 Spurn not thy foot against the wall ; 
 But, with meek heart and prayer still, 
 Obey, and thank thy God for all." 
 
 Dunbar. Most of this poet's works are of a humourous char- 
 acter and refer to humble life ; others are allegorical and full of 
 beautiful and natural imagery, while some are moral and instructive. 
 In each however, he excels ; while they all show a truly powerful 
 and original genius. He was no doubt a man of the highest genius, 
 and his works would probably have been better known, and more 
 read, but for the antiquated language in which they are written. 
 His principal allegorical poems are IJie Golden Serge, the Dance, 
 and the Thistle and the Rose : of these the best is the Vance. It 
 is a fantastic and terrible impersonation, written with the intense 
 reality of Dante ; and describes a procession of the Seven Deadly 
 Sins, two of which. Ire and Envy, are quoted as examples. 
 
 "Then Ire came in with sturt* and strife ; 
 His hand was ay upon his knife, 
 
 He brandeist like a beir ;t 
 Boasters, braggarts, and bargainers. 
 After him passed in pairs, 
 
 Arrayed in feir of weir. 
 In jacks, stir'ps, and bonnets of steel, 
 Their legs were chained to the heel ; 
 
 Frawart was tlieir elTeir \X 
 Some upon other with brandis beft,*i 
 Some jaggit others to the heft 
 
 With knives that sharp could shear." 
 
 * Disturbance. J Warlike Manner. 
 
 t Bear. 11 Struct with swords.
 
 Douglas. Montgomery. 549 
 
 "Next in the dance followed Envy, 
 P'ill'd full of feid and fellony. 
 
 Hid malice and despite. 
 For privy hatred that traitor trembled, 
 Him followed many freik dissembled 
 
 With fenyit wordis white ; 
 And flatterers unto men's faces, 
 And back-biters in secret places. 
 
 To lie that had delight, 
 With whispering of false leasings ; 
 Alas ! that courts of noble kings 
 
 Of tliem can ne'er be quite." 
 
 Douglas. The principal poems of this writer are the Palace of 
 
 Honour, an allegory showing that nothing but virtue could lead to 
 
 happiness : and King Hart, a metaphorical view of the progress of 
 
 human life. But it is by the translation of Virgil into Scottish verse 
 
 that Douglas is best known, of which the most remarkable feature, 
 
 is the amount of Latin words with English terminations introduced. 
 
 P'or example the following passage in his beautiful description of 
 
 Sunrise, in the Introduction to the Twelfth book, 
 
 "The annate vanes of his throne-soverane 
 With glittering glance o'erspread the oceane ; 
 The largd fludis beaming all of light, 
 With but one blink of liis supernal sight. 
 For to behold it was xx^e. glore to see 
 The stabled windis and the coloured sea, 
 The soft season, ihcfir/navtcut serene. 
 The lowne illuininate air, and firth a?nene." * 
 
 Montgomery. This poet, was a follower of the same School 
 with Dunbar and Douglas, and was very popular in his day. 
 His principal work is an allegorical poem called The Cherrie 
 and the Sloe, of wearisome length. Although it has in it several 
 passages of extraordinary beauty, it is on the whole of very unequal 
 merit, flis smaller poems which are chiefly of a moral and religi- 
 ous style, are much more sprightly, and pleasing. 
 
 rHK DKITV. 
 
 "Supreme ICssence, beginning unbegun, 
 Ay Trinall one, one uudividcd three. 
 Eternal Word, tlial victory has won 
 Our Death, tiur Ifcll, triunipliant on the Tree, 
 Foreknowledge, M'isdoui, and All-scan ee, 
 Jeliovah, Aliiha and Omega, All. 
 Like unto none, nor none like unto thee, 
 
 The words written in Italic, arc those from the Latin.
 
 o50 Minor Poets form Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 Unmoved, who movest the rounds about the ball, 
 
 Container uncontained ; is, was, and shall, 
 
 Be sempiternal, merciful, and just. 
 
 Creator uncreated, now I call. 
 
 Teach me thy truth, since into thee 1 trust, 
 Increase, confirm, and kindle from above 
 My faith, my hope, but, by thy leave, my love." 
 
 Blind Harry. Another Scotch poet known under the name 
 of Blind Harry wrote poetrj' at this period. His only remembered 
 poem is a narrative of the exploits and deeds of William Wallace, 
 written in long rhymed couplets, and containing several vigorous 
 and picturesque passages. The manner in which the Seasons of 
 the year are painted in this poem, are not only terse, but very ele- 
 gant. As for example the following description of Spring : 
 
 "Gentle Jupiter, with his mild ordinance, 
 Both herb and tree reverts into pleasance ; 
 And fresh Flora her flowery mantle spread, 
 In every dale both hop, bight, hill, and mead." 
 
 Or the following picturesque description of Morning ; 
 
 "The merrj' day sprang from the orient, 
 With beams bright illuminate Occident, 
 After Titan, Phebus upriseth fair, 
 High in the sphere, the signs she made declare. 
 Zephyrus then began his morning course. 
 The sweet vapour thus from the ground resource; 
 The humble breath down from the heaven avail 
 In every mead, both frith, forest and dale. 
 The clear reed among the rockis rang 
 Through green branches where the birds blithely sang, 
 "With joyous voice in heavenly harmony." 
 
 Skelton. The most original and at the same time the most 
 interestingof this poet's writings are his comic and satirical poems. 
 They are written in a peculiar short doggrel measure, with inces- 
 santly recurring rhymes. They consist chiefly in a series of 
 audacious attacks upon the then all-powerful favorite and minister 
 Wolsey. In some of his works, this poet has adopted the more 
 stately seven-lined stanza, but even then he frequently relapses into 
 the absurdities of his favourite style. Although his subjects are 
 very often as ridiculous as his metre, there are frequently unmis- 
 takeable marks of genius to be seen in his poems. He shows 
 in several places considerable power in exhibiting allegorical
 
 More. 561 
 
 imnges with spirit and dignity. For example, in his delineation of 
 Disdimt, 
 
 "He looked haugiity, he set each man at nought ; 
 His gaudy garment with scorns was all wrought, 
 With indignation lined was his hode ; 
 lie frowned as he would swear by cocks l^lood. 
 He l)it the lip, he looked passing coy ; 
 His fl^ce was belimmed, as bees had him stung ; 
 It was no time with him to jape nor toy. 
 Envy hath wasted his liver and his lung : 
 Ifatred liy the heart so had him wrung, 
 That he looked pale as ashes to my sight : 
 Forthwith he made on me a proud assault, 
 With scornful look moved all in mode ;* 
 He went about to take me in a fault, 
 He frownd, he stared, he stamj:)ed where he stood : 
 I look on him, I ween'd he had been woode :t 
 He set the arm proudly under tlie side, 
 And in this wise he t;an with me to chide. " 
 
 More. Sir Thomas More is best remembered by his prose 
 
 works, Utopia &c., but lie was also the writer of miscellaneous 
 
 verses, of which many are of considerable merit and beauty. The 
 
 following passage is selected from his La)ncntatifln of flie Death 
 
 of Qiteen ElizabetJi. 
 
 " O ye that put your trust and confidence. 
 In woriilly joy and frayle prosperite. 
 That so live here as ye should never hence, 
 Remember death and loke here upon me. 
 I'nsample I thyn!<e there may no helter be. 
 Your selfc wotte well that in this realm was I 
 \'our quene but late, and lo now here I lye. 
 
 Was I not borne of old worthy linage? 
 Was not my mother queene, my father kyng? 
 Was I not a kinges fere in marriage ? 
 Was 1 not plenty of every jdeasaunl tiling? 
 Mercifull Goil, ihis is a slrangc reckoning : 
 Richesse. honour, weallli, and aunccstry, 
 Hath me forsaken, and low now here I lie. 
 
 * !( *( * * 
 
 O brittle wealth, so full of bitterness, 
 Tliy single ph'a^ure doubled is with pain: 
 Aci'ount my .sorrow first and my distresse 
 In sundry wy.--e. and recken there a^ayne. 
 The j<iy that L have had, and I dare sayne. 
 For ill my honour, enduivd yet have 1, 
 .More wo then wealth, and low now here I lye." 
 
 * .Anger.
 
 552 Minor Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 Hawes. It is important that this poet should be mentioned, 
 being the chief link between Chaucer and his contemporaries and 
 the poets who flourished during the reign of Henry the Eighth. He 
 is interesting in another sense, namely his exertion to release poetry 
 from the dull precincts of the cloister to which his more immediate 
 predecessors had confined it. The poets who preceded him were 
 for the most part, mere chroniclers or translators and Hawes de- 
 serves, leaving the merit of his works out, the praise of having dared 
 to be original. His principal poem the Pasthne of Pleasure is 
 purely allegorical, and contains unquestionably many striking pas- 
 sages. The hero of the poem is True Gallmitry, and the heroine 
 Perfect Beauty. To obtain the Fayre Lady, the Grande Amoure 
 has to encounter and overcome no end of dangers and difficulties, 
 and in especial he is to win his way to favour by the acquirement 
 of perfect knowledge in the seven sciences Grammar, Logic, 
 Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Music, Geometry, and Astronomy. The 
 poem itself, is long and tedious, although it is entitled to rank as an 
 "inventive" work. Tiie following extract in which he seeks the 
 acquaintance of Logic and Rhetoric, will be sufficient to show the 
 character of this poet's work. 
 
 "So by I went into a chamber bright 
 Where was wont, to be a right fair lady 
 Before whom then, it was my whole delight 
 I kneel'd adown, full well and meekly 
 Beseeching her, to instruct me shortly 
 In her noble science, which is expedient 
 For man to know, in many an argument. 
 You shall quoth she, my science well learn 
 In time and space, to your great utility 
 So that in me looking, you shall then discern 
 A friend from foe, and good from iniquity 
 Right from wrong, ye shall know in certainty. 
 My science is, all the ill to eschew 
 And for to know, the false from the true, 
 Who will take pains, to follow the trace 
 In this wicked world, of truth and righteousness 
 In heaven above, he shall have dwelling place ; 
 And who that walketh the way of darkness 
 Spending his time in worldly wickedness 
 Amid the earth, in hell most horrible
 
 Lyndsay. 663 
 
 He shall have pain, nothing extinguishable 
 
 So by Logic, is good perseverance 
 
 To divide the good, and the evil asunder 
 
 It is alway, at man's pleasure 
 
 To take the good, and cast the evil under. 
 
 If God made hell, it is thereof no wonder. 
 
 For to punish man, that had intelligence 
 
 To know good from ill, by true experience. 
 
 ***** 
 Her wise doctrine, I marked in memory 
 And took my leave, of her high person 
 Uecause that I might no longer tarry. 
 The year was spent, and so far then gone 
 And of my lady, yet sight had I none 
 Which was abiding, in the tower of Music 
 Wherefore anon, I went to Rhetoric." 
 
 Lyndsay. Sir David Lyndsay was another of the eminent 
 Scotch poets of this period. He is chiefly known, as a humourous 
 and satirical writer, in the latter of which he severely attacks the 
 clergy. His principal works are The Dream, and The Monarchy. 
 His poems contain descriptive passages of real beauty. The fol- 
 lowing passage from the latter poem, in which the poet describes 
 the creation of the world and of Adam, will afford an example of 
 his descriptive talents. 
 
 " When God had made the hevcnnis bricht, 
 The sone, and mone, for to gyf licht. 
 The starry heaven, and cristalline. 
 And, by his sapience divine. 
 The planeils, in their circles round, 
 Quhirling aljout with merie sound : 
 He clad the earth with herbs and trees ; 
 All kind of fishes in the seas, 
 All kind of beast he did prepare 
 With fowlis fleeting in the air. 
 When heaven and earth and their contents 
 Were endit, with tlieir ornaments, 
 Then, last of all. the lortl began 
 Of most vile earth to make the man : 
 Not of the lillie or the rose, 
 Niir cyper-trce. as I su]iposc 
 Neither of gold, nor i)recions stones, 
 Ofcarlh 1k' made Hcsli, blo(j(l, and bones; 
 T(j that iiiU-iU he in;ide him thus. 
 That man slioiild noctli be glorius, 
 And in himself no thing should see 
 Hut nialler of humility."
 
 554 Mitior Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 Barclay. The principal work of Alexander Barclay, is a satir- 
 ical allegorical poem entitled the Ship of Fools, a translation from 
 the German of Sebastian Brandt. Under the allegory of a Ship 
 freighted with Fools of all kinds, the poet ridicules the prevalent 
 vices and follies of the times. The following speech of Pleasure 
 is extracted from this poem. 
 
 " All my vesture is of gold pure, 
 My gay chaplet with stones set, 
 With converture of fine azure, 
 In silver net my hair upknet, 
 Soft silke between, lest it might fret ; 
 My purjale pall overcovereth all. 
 Clear as cristall, no thing egall 
 With harp in hand, alway 1 stande, 
 Passing eche houre, in sweet pleasure ; 
 A wanton band, of every land. 
 Are in my toure, me in honour. 
 Some of valour, some bare and poor ; 
 Kinges in their pride sit by my side : 
 Every fresh flower, of sweet odoure, 
 To them I provide, that with me bide 
 Whoe'er they be, that follow me. 
 And gladly flee to my standard, 
 They shall be free, nor sick, nor see 
 Adversitie, and pains hard." 
 
 Wyatt. This poet's writings consist chiefly of Songs and Son- 
 nets, after the style of Petrarch, and possess the same faults as well 
 as the same excellencies of the Italian poet. Wyatt was the first 
 polished satirist in English literature. The great fault of his writ- 
 ing is that his true feelings are often disguised by affectation, yet 
 there are often to be found in his poems many passages of real 
 feeling. In the lines To the Lute, in which Tlie lover cojiiplahtcth 
 of the unkmdjiess of his love, there is a great degree of true lyric 
 
 sweetness. 
 
 "My Lute, awake, perform the last 
 Labour that thou and I shall wast : 
 And end that I have now begun 
 And when this song is sung and past, 
 My lute be sliil for I liave done. 
 
 As to be heard where ear is none. 
 As lead to grave in marlde stone, 
 My song may pierce her lieart as soon ! 
 Should we then i^ijh. or sing, or moan, 
 No, no, my kite,, fnv I have done.
 
 Surrey. 566 
 
 The rocks do not so cruelly, 
 Repulse the waves continually, 
 As she my suit and affection : 
 So that I am past remedy, 
 Whereby my lute and I have done. 
 
 Proud of the spoil that thou hast got, 
 Of simple hearts through Love's shot, 
 By whom unkind tliou hast them won, 
 Think not he hath his bow forgot, 
 Although my lute and I have done. 
 
 May chance thee lie withered and old. 
 In winter nights tliat are so cold, 
 Plaining in vain unto tlic moon : 
 Thy wishes then dare not be told ! 
 Care then who list, for I have done, 
 
 Now cease, my lute, this is the last, 
 Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
 And ended is that we begun. 
 Now is this song both sung and past. 
 My kite be still fori have done." 
 
 Surrey. The Earl of Surrey was a writer of the same style with 
 Wyatt, his poetry is chiefly amorous, and written upon the models 
 of Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Ariosto. Surrey may be re- 
 garded as the first English classical poet for justness of thought, 
 correctness of style, and purity of expression. He was the first 
 who introduced blank verse into our English poetry, and his versi- 
 fication differs consideral^ly from that of his predecessors. Both 
 in his elegance of sentiment, and in his numbers, he is far superior 
 to Wyatt. An excellent instance of his poetry, and his power of 
 representing rural imagery, is seen in a description of Spring, 
 wherein each thing renews save only the lover. 
 
 "The sweet season that bud and liloom forth brings, 
 Willi green had clad the liill, and trimmed tlie vale; 
 The nightingale with feathers new she sings; 
 The turtle to her male lialh told her tale ;' 
 Summer is come, for every spray now spi'ings, 
 The hart hatli hung his old head on the pale; 
 The buck in brake his winter coal he ilings ; 
 The fishes fkel w ith new repaired scale ; 
 The adder all her slough awn}' she ilings ; 
 'j'he swift swallow piusueth \.\\v Hies small; 
 The busy bee her lione}' how she minges ; 
 Winter is worn tliat was the ilowers bale.
 
 556 Minor Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 And thus 1 see among these pleasant things 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs." 
 
 Vaux. Warton places the date of this poet after Wyatt and 
 
 Surrey. There are numbers of his poems in the ''Paradise of 
 
 Dainty Devises," a work which appeared in the reign of Elizabeth, 
 
 and comprised a collection of poems, many of considerable genius, 
 
 which might otherwise never have reached the present age. The 
 
 poems of Vaux possess all the smoothness and facility of style for 
 
 which the poetry at this age was so distinguished. The following 
 
 verses on the Instability of Youths extracted from the " Paradise 
 
 of Dainty Devises/' is a fair specimen of his poetry. 
 
 "When I look back, and in myself behold 
 The wandering ways that youth could not descry, 
 And mark the fearful course that youtli did hold 
 And mete in mind each step youth strayed awry ; 
 My knees I bow, and from my heart I call, 
 
 Lord, forget these sins and follies all. 
 For now I see how void youth is of skill, 
 
 1 also see his prime-time and his end ; 
 I do confess my faults and all my ill, 
 And sorrow sore for that I did offend ; 
 And with a mind repentant of all crimes, 
 Pardon I ask for youth ten thousand times. 
 
 Thou, that didst grant the wise king his request. 
 Thou, that in whale the prophet didst preserve. 
 Thou, that forgavest the woundings of my breast. 
 Thou, that didst save tlie thief in state to starve; 
 Thou only God, the giver of all grace. 
 Wipe out of mind the path of youth's vain race. 
 
 Thou, that by power to life didst raise the dead. 
 Thou, that of grace, restord'st the blind to sight. 
 Thou, that for love thy life and love outbled. 
 Thou, that of favour mad'st the lame go right. 
 Thou, that canst heal and help in all essays, 
 Forgive the guilt that grew in youth's vain ways." 
 
 TUSSER. This poet may be mentioned as one of the earliest 
 
 of our didactic poets. He was the writer of the poem, A Hundred 
 
 good points of Husbandry, which was later enlarged and published 
 
 under the ixilc oi Five Hundred Joints cf Good Husbandry, united 
 
 to as many of Good Houseiuifei y. Warton speaks of it as "one of 
 
 the finest poems of antiquity." He says "This old English georgic 
 
 has much more of the simplicity of Hesiod, than the elegance of
 
 Edwardes. 557 
 
 Virgil ; and a modern reader would suspect, that many of its salu- 
 tary maxims originally decorated the margins, and illustrated the 
 calenders of an ancient almanack. It is without invocations, 
 digressions, and descriptions : no pleasing pictures of rural imagery 
 are drawn from meadows covered with flocks, and fields waving 
 with corn, nor are Pan and Ceres once named. Yet it is valuable 
 as a genuine picture of the agriculture, the rural arts, and the 
 domestic economy and customs of our industrious ancestors." A 
 specimen is to be seen in the following verses, which contain 
 directions for cultivating a hop garden. 
 
 "Whom fancy ])ersuadetli, among other crops, 
 To have for his spreading, sufficient for hops, 
 Must willingly follow, of choices to ciioose, 
 Such lessons approved, as skilful do use. 
 
 Ground gravelly, or sandy, and mixed with clay. 
 Is naughty for hops, any manner of way ; 
 Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone. 
 For dryness and barrenness let it alone. 
 
 Choose soil for the hop of the rottencst mould, 
 Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should; 
 Not far from the water, l)ut not overllown : 
 This lesson well noted is meet to be known. 
 
 The sun in the south, or else southly and west, 
 Is good to the hoji, and a welcome guest ; 
 JUit wind in the north, or else northly east. 
 To the hop, is as ill as a fray in a feast. 
 
 IVFeet plot for a hop-yard, once found as is told, 
 Make thereof account, as of jewel of gokl : 
 Now dig it and leave it, the sun for to burn, 
 And afterward fence it to ser\e for that turn. 
 
 The hop for his profit I thus do exalt : 
 ^t strciiglhenetii drink, and it fa\'oureth malt: 
 And being well brewed, long kept it will last, 
 And drawing abide if ye draw not loo fast." 
 
 F.nWARDKS. Ricli.'ird I'.dwardis was one of the chief writers 
 and framcrsof ''The Paradise of Dainty Devises," a work publisiied 
 in lo78. He is classed amongst the most acc(nn]i]ishcd men of 
 that age, and was one of the earliest dramatic writers, after the re- 
 form of the stage. The following song, will afford an example of 
 the easy style in which he wrote.
 
 558 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 "Where griping griefs the heart would wound 
 And doleful dumps* the mind oppress, 
 There music with her silver sound 
 
 With speed is wont to send redress : 
 Of troubled minds, in every sore, 
 Sweet music hath a salve in store. 
 
 The Gods by music have their praise ; 
 
 The life, the soul therein doth joy : 
 For, as the Roman poet says, 
 
 In seas, where pirates would destroy, 
 A dolphin saved from death most sharp 
 Arion playing on his harp. 
 
 O heavenly gift, that rules the mind, 
 Even as the stern doth rule the ship ! 
 
 O music, whom the Gods assigned 
 
 To comfort man, whom cares would nip ! 
 
 Since thou both man and beast doth move 
 
 What beast is he, will thee disprove ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 MINOR POETS OF THE ELIZABETHAN ERA. 
 
 Vere. The poems of this writer are to be found scattered 
 
 amongst various " collections." He is a fair example of the minor 
 
 poets of the age he lived in, although his works are now entirely 
 
 neglected. One of the most graceful of his poems is that called 
 
 Fancy and Desire. 
 
 "Come hither, shepherd's swain : 
 'Sir, what do you require?' 
 I pray thee, show to me thy name, 
 'My name is Fond Desire.' 
 
 When wert thou born, Desire ? 
 
 'In pomp and prime of May,' 
 By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot ? 
 
 'By fond Conceit men say.' 
 
 Tell me who was thy nurse ? 
 
 'Fresh Youth is surged joy.' 
 What was thy meet and daily food ? 
 
 'Sad sighs with great annoy,' 
 
 What hadst thou then to drink ? 
 
 ' Unsavoury lovers tears.' 
 W^hat cradle wert thou rocked in ? 
 
 'In hope devoid of fears.' 
 
 '' Sad Ihoushts,
 
 Gascotgne. 559 
 
 What lullVl thee then asleep ? 
 
 ' Sweet speech, which likes me best.' 
 Tell me, where is thy dwelling place ? 
 
 'In gentle hearts 1 rest.' 
 
 What thing doth please thee most ? 
 
 'To gaze on beauty still.' 
 Whom dost thou think to be thy foe ? 
 
 ' Disdain of my good will.' 
 
 Doth company displease ? 
 
 'Yea, surely, many one.' 
 Where doth desire delight to live ? 
 
 ' He loves to live alone.' 
 
 Doth either time or age 
 
 Tiring him unto decay? 
 'No, no. Desire both lives and dies 
 
 Ten thousand times a day.' 
 
 Then, fond Desire, farewell, 
 
 Thou art no male for me ; 
 I should be loth, metliinks, to dwcjl 
 
 With such a one as tliec.*' 
 
 Gascoigne.- George Gascoigne obtained great popularity at 
 this period for his narrative and lyric poetry. He also obtained 
 great celebrity as a satirist in which kind of writing he shows 
 remarkable art. Some of his works exhibit great genius. His 
 most important poem, is the Stc'cl 6'/(^j'j'j-, a declamation against the 
 vices and follies of his time. It is one of the earliest examples of 
 blank verse ; and contains many noble thoughts, conveyed in an 
 easy and graceful style. The richest fancy, however, is shown in 
 some of his minor compositions, of which the followin<r is one. 
 
 THE AKRAIGNMEXT OF A L0\EK. 
 
 " At Beauty's bar as I did stand, 
 
 When false suspect accused me, 
 
 George (quoth the Judge) JKjJd up thy hand, 
 
 Tliou arl anaigned of Flattery : 
 
 Tell therefore how tliou will be tried : 
 
 Whose judgment here wilt thou abide? 
 
 My Lord (quoth 1) this L.ady here, 
 Whom I esteem among the rest, 
 Dolh know my guilt if any were : 
 Wherefore her dtiom shall jilea^e me best. 
 Let her be Judge and Juror both. 
 To try me guiltless by mine oath. 
 
 ( hioih lieauly, no, it (ittelli not 
 A Trincc lierself to judge the cause :
 
 560 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 Will is our Justice well you wot, 
 Appointed to discuss our Laws : 
 If 3'ou will guiltless seem to go, 
 God and your country quit you so. 
 
 The Craft the crier call'd a quest, 
 Of whom was Falsehood foremost feere, 
 A pack of pickethankes were the rest. 
 Which came false witness for to bear, 
 The Jury such, the Judge unjust, 
 Sentence was said I should be trust. 
 
 Jealous the jailer bound me fast. 
 To hear the verdict of the bill, 
 George (quoth the Judge) now thou art cast. 
 Thou must go to heavy hill. 
 And there be hang'd all by the head, 
 God rest thy soul when thou art dead. 
 
 Down fell I then upon my knee, 
 All flat before Dame Beauty's face, 
 And cried, good I.ady pardon me, 
 W'hich here appeal unto your grace, 
 You know if I have been untrue. 
 It was in too much praising you. 
 
 And though this Judge do make such haste, 
 To shed with shame my guiltless blood : 
 Yet let your pity first be placed, 
 To save the man that meant you good, 
 So shall you show yourself a I'ueen, 
 And I may be your servant seen. 
 
 (Quoth Beauty) well : Tjecause I guess. 
 What thou dost mean henceforth to l)e. 
 Although thy faults deserve no less. 
 Than Justice here hath judged thee. 
 Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife, 
 And be true prisoner all thy life ? 
 
 Yea Madame (quoth I) that I shall, 
 Lo Faith and Truth my sureties : 
 Why then (quoth she) come when I call, 
 I ask no better warranties. 
 Thus am I I^eauty's bounden thrall. 
 At her command when she doth call." 
 
 TURBERVILLE. TurbervlUe's writings are inferior to those of 
 
 Gascoigne in point of invention. He frequently employed a peculiar 
 
 modification of the old English ballad stanza, which was extremely 
 
 fashionableat that period, namely, instead of making the third line 
 
 equal to the first in having six syllables, it contained eight. An
 
 Raleigh. 561 
 
 example is seen in the Epitaph on Maister Edtvards. 
 
 " Ye learned muses nine 
 
 And sacred sisters all, 
 Now lay your cheerful cithrons down, 
 
 And to lamenting fall. 
 For he that led the dance. 
 
 The chiefest of your train, 
 I mean the man that Edwards hight, 
 
 liy cruel death is slain. 
 Ye courtiers change your cheer, 
 
 Lament in wasteful wise ; 
 For now your Orpheus has resign'd, 
 
 In clay his carcase lies. 
 O ruth ! he is bereft, 
 
 That, whilst he lived here, 
 For poets pen and passing wit 
 
 Could have no English peer." 
 
 Raleigh. Sir Walter Raleigh was the writer of several poems, 
 of which some are very beautiful, and give evidence of what he 
 might have done, had circumstances enabled him to devote it to 
 the energies of his capacious mind. He was styled by Spenser the 
 " summer nightingale." The Shepherd'' s description of Love, from 
 which the following verses are extracted, is a beautiful little poem. 
 
 MILIBEUS. 
 
 "Shepherd, what's Love, I pray thee tellj? 
 
 FAUSTUS. 
 
 It is that fountain, and that well, 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell : 
 It is, perhaps, that saucing bell. 
 
 That tolls all into heaven or hell : 
 
 And this is Love, as I heard tell. 
 
 MII.IBKUS. 
 Yet what is Love, I prithee say? 
 
 FAUSTUS. 
 
 It is a work on holy-day. 
 
 It is December match'd with May, 
 
 When lusty bloods in fresh array 
 
 Hear ten months after of the play : 
 
 And tills is Love, as I hear say. 
 
 MTLIHI'.US. 
 
 Yet what is Love, good Shepherd saine ? 
 
 FAUSTUS. 
 
 It is a sun-shine mixM with rain. 
 It is a tooth-ache ; or like pain ; 
 It is a game, where none doth gain. 
 
 The lass saith no, and would full fain : 
 
 And this is Love, as I hear saine.
 
 562 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 MILIBEUS. 
 
 Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, T pray ? 
 
 FAUSTUS. 
 
 It is a yea, it is a nay, 
 
 A pretty kind of sporting fray, 
 
 It is a thing will soon away ; 
 
 Then Nymphs take 'vantage while ye may ; 
 
 And this is Love, as I hear say." 
 
 Lyly. John Lyly may be mentioned as a poet of this date. He 
 
 was the author of several plays, in some parts of which there may 
 
 be found great wit and humour. The following passage is from 
 
 Alexander and Campaspc, one of the best remembered of his plays. 
 
 "Cupid and my Campaspe played 
 At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : 
 He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 
 His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; 
 Loses then too ; then down he throws 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 Growing on's cheeks (but none knows how). 
 With these, the crystal of his brow. 
 And then the dim])le of his chin, 
 but these did my Campaspe win. 
 At last he set her both his eyes. 
 She won, and Cupid lilind did rise. 
 
 O Love ! has she done this to thee ? 
 
 What shall, alas, become of me ? " 
 
 Sydney. Sir Philip Sydney's contributions to English poetry 
 consist chiefly of a collection of Sonnets. Both in the sonnets and 
 in his other poems, there is a sweetness and exquisite softness tint- 
 ed with a refined elegance, which is to be found in no other poet of 
 his time. The former indeed arc exquisite ; take for instance the 
 two following : 
 
 "With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! 
 
 How silently, and with how wan a face I 
 
 What ! may it he, that ev'n in heav'nly place 
 That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? 
 
 Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover"s case ; 
 
 I read it in thy looks, thy languish grace 
 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
 
 Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moon, tell me, 
 Is constant love deeni'd there hut want of wit ? 
 
 Are beauties there as proud as here tlicy be? 
 Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 
 
 Idiose lovers scorn, whom tliat !ove doth p(\ssess ? 
 
 Do they call virtue their ungratefulness ? "
 
 Brooke. Lodge, 563 
 
 "Come, sleep: O sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 
 The ])aitinij place of wit, the balm of woe, 
 
 'i'he jioor man's wealth, the prisoner's i-elease, 
 Th' indiffererfl judge between the high and low : 
 
 With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 
 Of those fierce darts, despair at me doth throw : 
 
 O make in me those civil wars to cease; 
 I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; 
 A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light, 
 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head : 
 And if these things, as being thine by right, 
 
 Move not thy heavy grace, tliou shall in me. 
 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see." 
 
 Brooke. Lord Brooke was the writer of several poems and 
 
 tragedies, upon the latter of which Southey says that Dryden formed 
 
 his tragic style. His poems are a Treatise on Human Learning, a 
 
 Treatise 0/ Wars, a Treatise oj Monarehy, a Treatise ofReligion,2ind 
 
 an Inquisition itpon Fame and Fortune. His two tragedies were 
 
 entitled ///(('//rrw and MiistapJia. The following passage is selected 
 
 from his works, and is a beautiful example of his sacred poetry. 
 
 " Zion lies waste, and thy Jerusalem, 
 O Lord, is fall'n to utter desolation ; 
 Against thy prophets and thy holy men. 
 The Sin hath wrought a fatal combination, 
 i'rofaned thy name, thy worship overthrown, 
 And made Thee, living Lord, a God unknown. 
 
 Thy jiowerful laws, thy wonders of creation. 
 
 Thy Word Incarnate, gioiious heaven, dark hell. 
 
 Lie shadow'd under man's degeneration, 
 
 Thy Christ still crucitied for doing well : 
 
 Impiety, O Lord, sits on thy throne, 
 
 Which makes Thee, li\ing Liglit. a God unknown. 
 
 Man's suiierstition dotli thy trutli entomb. 
 
 His atheism again lier pomp defaccth ; 
 
 Sin eartlily. sensual, devilish, doth consume 
 
 Thv set'n (Jhuroh. and thy unseen Clmrcli disgraceth; 
 
 'I'here lives no trulli witli tlioin th;U seem thine own, 
 
 Wliich makes 'I'licc. living Lord, a (lod unknown.'" 
 
 L()r)GF..-"'rhomr.sLotlgeisrenieiiiborc(l(:hicll\ as a dramatic poet. 
 
 Of his poems mo>t of them are contained in the 'J''nglish Helicon," 
 
 ptiblishcd in 1(100. I lis princiiial works ari' t'roinos and Cassandra, 
 
 and Glaucus and S cilia. I'hc following verses are extracted from 
 
 his poems.
 
 564 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 "Sweet, solitary life, thou true repose, 
 Wherein the wise contemplate heaven aright. 
 In thee no dread of war or worldly foes, 
 In thee no pomp seduceth mortal sight, 
 In thee no wanton ears to win with words, 
 Nor lurking toys which city-life affords. 
 
 At peep of day, when, in her crimson pride, 
 
 The morn bespreads with roses all the way. 
 
 When Phoebus coach, with radiant course, must glide, 
 
 The hermit bends his humble knees to pray, 
 
 Blessing that God, whose bounty doth bestow 
 
 Such beauties on the earthly things below. 
 
 Whether, with solace tripping on the trees, 
 He sees the citizens of forest sport ; 
 Or, midst the wither'd oak beholds the bees 
 Intend their labours with a kind consort ; 
 Down drop his tears, to think how they agree, 
 While men alone with hate inflamed be," 
 
 Southwell, This poet may be considered as one of the best 
 of the minor poets of this age. His works breathe a spirit of reli- 
 gious resignation, and are marked by great beauty of thought and 
 expression. The leading themes of all his poems, are the uncer- 
 tainty of life, the emptiness of human pleasures, the consolations 
 of religion and anticipations of future glory. There is an earnest- 
 ness in his poems, and an impassioned energy. His longest poem 
 is St. Peter''s Complaint, but the most poetry, and the deepest 
 cultivation is found in his shorter compositions. There is no doubt 
 that Southwell possessed a genius of a very rare order ; a genius 
 worthy of the high and noble themes on which he wrote. The 
 following passage, Love's ser^'ile lot, is an excellent specimen of 
 his minor poems. 
 
 "Love, mistress is of many minds 
 Yet few know whom they serve ; 
 They reckon least how little Love 
 Their service doth deserve, 
 
 The will she robbeth from the wit. 
 
 The sense from reason's lore ; 
 She is delightful in the rind, 
 
 Corrupted in the core- 
 She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, 
 
 Pretending good in ill ; 
 She offereth joy, afFordeth grief, 
 
 A kiss where she doth kill.
 
 Daniel. 566 
 
 A. honey-shower rains from her lips, 
 
 Sweet lights shine in her face ; 
 She had tlie blush of virgin mind, 
 
 The mind of viper's race. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 May never was the month of love, 
 
 For May is full of flowers ; 
 J3ut rather April, wet by kind, 
 
 For love is full of showers. 
 
 Like winter rose and summer ice 
 
 Her joys are still untimely ; 
 Before her Hope, behind remorse 
 
 Fair first, in fine unseemly. 
 
 Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit, 
 
 And slippery Hope her stairs ; 
 Unbashful boldness bids her guests, 
 
 And every vice repairs. 
 
 Her diet is of such delights 
 
 As please till they be past ; 
 But when the poison kills the heart 
 
 That did entice the taste. 
 
 Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath, 
 
 Remorse rings her awake ; 
 Death calls her up, Shame drives her out, 
 
 Despairs her upshot make. 
 
 Plow not the seas, sow not the sands, 
 
 Leave off your idle pain ; 
 Seek other mistress for your minds, 
 
 Love's service is in vain." 
 
 Daniel. Daniel's poems are less interesting, as they relate only 
 
 to the persons and circimistances of the age at which he lived. Yet 
 
 many of his pieces rise in style to a high degree of excellence. His 
 
 diction also is easy, and the language natural ; and there is a fine 
 
 weighty and philosophic vein flowing through them all. There is 
 
 nothing of sublimity in his writings, but mucli pathos. One of the 
 
 finest specimens is his address to the Countess of Cumberland, 
 
 and it is one of the finest effusions of meditative thought in the 
 
 English language. 
 
 "lie that of sucli hath built liis mind. 
 And rcar'il the dwcUing of his thoughts so strong, 
 As neitiier fear nor liope caii shake the frame 
 Of his resolved now'rs, nor all the wind 
 Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
 
 566 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; 
 
 What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
 
 The boimdless wastes and wilds of man survey. 
 
 And with how free an eye doth lie look down 
 
 Upon these lower regions of turmoil. 
 
 Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
 
 On flesh and blood, where honour, pow'r, renown, 
 
 Are only gay afflictions, golden toil. 
 
 Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
 
 As frailty doth, and only great doth seem 
 
 To little minds, who do it so esteem. 
 
 He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
 As are the passions of uncertain man, 
 Who puts in all colours, all attires, 
 To serve his ends and make his courses hold : 
 He sees, that let deceit work what it can, 
 Plot and contrive base ways to high desires. 
 That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
 All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit. 
 
 Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Power, that proudly sits on other's crimes, 
 Charged with more crying sins then those he checks ; 
 The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
 Up in the present, for the coming times. 
 Appal not him, that hath no side at all 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart so near to earth, 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distress mortality, 
 That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
 Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon imbecility, 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon, not strange ; but as foredone. 
 
 And whilst distraught ambition compasses 
 And is encompassed, whil'st as craft deceives 
 And is deceived, whil'st man doth ransack man, 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress, 
 And th' inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great expecting hopes, he looks thereon 
 As from the shore of peace with unwet eye. 
 And bears no venture in impiety. 
 Thus, Madame, fares that man that hath prepared 
 A rest for his desires, and sees all things 
 Beneath him, and hath learn'd this book of man. 
 Full of the notes of frailty, and compar'd 
 The best of glory with her sufferings, 
 By whom I see you labour all you can 
 To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as near 
 His glorious mansion as your powers can bear."
 
 Drayton. 567 
 
 Drayton. This poet is somewhat similar in character to Daniel 
 
 but far more original. His collection of poems are very large, and 
 
 amongst the principal of them are Polyoldioti, a topographical and 
 
 descriptive poem in thirty cantos, The Baiotis IVars, Engla7i(rs 
 
 Heroical Epistles, Tlic Battle of Agincourt, The Muses' Elysium, 
 
 and the Court of Fairy, a scries of delicious fancies. In the Voly- 
 
 olbiun, which is composed in the long rhymed verse of twelve 
 
 syllables, Drayton has described his country with all the enthusiasm 
 
 of a poet, enlivening his work as lie goes on Ijn the richest profusion 
 
 of allegory and personification. A fine example may be seen in his 
 
 vivacious description of the hunting of the hart in the forest of 
 
 Arden in Warwickshire, from the Polyolbion. 
 
 " Now, when tlie hert doth licar 
 
 The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair, 
 
 In rousing; rusheth out, and throu<jh the brakes dnth drive 
 
 As though liy the roots the bushes he would rive. 
 
 And though the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes. 
 
 He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, 
 
 That, sprinkHng their moist pearl, do seem for him to weep 
 
 When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, 
 
 That all the forest rings and e\cry neighbouring place; 
 
 And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase. 
 
 Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers. 
 
 Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears 
 
 His body showing state, with unbent knees ujiright, 
 
 Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his ilight. 
 
 ]5ut when th" aiiproaching fcjes still following he [;erceives, 
 
 That he his spee<l must tiu->t, his usual walk he leaves ; 
 
 And o'er a champain flies : which then the assembly find. 
 
 Each follows, as his horse were footctl with the wind. 
 
 15ut being then iudx)St, the noble stately deer, 
 
 When he hath gotten ground, (the kenmd cast arrear,) 
 
 Doth beat the brooks and jioads for sweet refreshing soil ; 
 
 'i'hat serving not, then pro\es if he his scent can foil, 
 
 And makes among the herds and tlocks of sliag-wool'd sheej). 
 
 Them frighlim; from the guard of tho>e who had their keep. 
 
 I5ut when as all his shifts his safely still denies. 
 
 Put quite out t)f his walk, the ways and fallows tries. 
 
 Whom when the ploughman meets, his teem he letteth stand, 
 
 T' assail him with his goad : so with his hook in hand 
 
 The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollow; 
 
 When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsman follow : 
 
 Until the noble deer, through toil l)ereaved of ^trengtli. 
 
 His long and .-.inewy legs then failing him at length, 
 
 The villages attempts, enr.aged, not giving way
 
 568 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 To anything he meets now at his sad decay. 
 The cruel lav'nous hounds and bloody hunters near, 
 Tliis noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear, 
 Some bank or quickset finds ; to which his haunch opposed, 
 He turns vipon his foes, that soon have him enclosed. 
 The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay, 
 And as their cruel fangs on his liarsli skin they lay, 
 With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds. 
 The hunter coming in to help his wearied hounds, 
 He desp'rately assails ; until, oppress'd by force, 
 He now the mourner is to his own dying corse." 
 
 Sylvester. Joshua Sylvester who was styled in his day the 
 '^ silver tongued," was the translator of The Divine Weeks and 
 Maoris, oi the French Poet Da Bar/as, which ran through seven 
 editions. In an Essay published by Mr. Dunster, it is said to have 
 been one of Milton's early favorites. Rewrote other small poems, 
 but of little merit. The following verses will be a sufficent speci- 
 men of his works. 
 
 "Some word's allusion is no certain ground 
 Whereon a lasting monument to found : 
 Since fairest rivers, mountains strangely steep, 
 And largest seas, never so vast and deep, 
 (Though self-eternal, resting still the same) 
 Through sundry chances often change their name : 
 Since it befalls not always, that his seed 
 Who built a town, dolh in the same succeed : 
 And (to conclude) since under heaven, no race 
 Perpetually possesses any place : 
 But, as all tenants at the high Lord's will. 
 We hold a field, a forest, or a hill ; 
 And (as when wind the angry ocean moves) 
 Wave hunteth wave, and billow billow shoves ; 
 So do all nations justle each the other, 
 And one people doth pursue another ; 
 And scarce the second hath a first un-housed ; 
 Before a third him thence again have roused. 
 
 WOTTON. The poetical works of Sir Henry Wotton, are very 
 small; undoubtedly he neither anticipated nor coveted fame for his 
 poetry; he wrote only from impulse of feeling. What he has left 
 are however very fine specimens of poetry, and touch the heart 
 more than any of the more artificial works of his contemporaries. 
 His Lines to the Queen of Boiuinia, form one of the finest speci- 
 mens of poetry in our language.
 
 Donne. 569 
 
 "You meaner beauties of the night, 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes 
 More by your number, than your light, 
 You common people of the skies ; 
 
 What are you when the sun shall rise ? 
 
 You curious chaunters of the wood, 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 
 Thinking your passions understood 
 By your weak accents ; what's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 
 
 You violets, that first appear, 
 By your pure purple mantles known. 
 Like the proud virgins of the year, 
 As if the spring were all your own ; 
 What are you when the rose is blown ? 
 
 So, when my mistress shall be seen 
 In sweetness of her looks and mind, 
 By virtue first, then choice a queen, 
 Tell me, if she were and design'd 
 Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?" 
 
 Donne. This poet was one of the most voluminous writers of his 
 time. His writings consist of love-verses, epigrams, elegies, but 
 principally satires, by which he is best known. He possessed the 
 highest requisites for poetry, but they were misled by learning and 
 false taste into such extravagancies as to entirely injure their bet- 
 ter qualities : in his incessant search after epigrammatic turns of 
 thought, Donne sacrificed both reason, taste, and propriety ; he 
 made the natural subordinate to the artificial, and though he some- 
 times used natural language and imagery and passion, it was only 
 by chance. His thoughts are crowded one upon another without 
 skill or effect ; and although his works contain numberless beauties, 
 they are obscured by the many deformities with which they are 
 mingled. His versification is harsh and rugged, and utterly tuneless. 
 Many examples might be given, however, to show that all the com- 
 positions of this poet were not uncouth and careless ; while there 
 are indeed some smooth even to elegance. His description of the 
 Storm is remarkably fine : 
 
 "Tlic south and west winds join'd, and, "as they blew, 
 Waves like a rolling trench before hini]|tlircw. 
 Sooner llian you read this line dicl tlie gale,~ 
 Like shot, not fi'ar'tLlill felt, our sails assail';
 
 570 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 And what at first was call'd a gust, the same 
 
 Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name. 
 
 Jonas ! I pity thee, and curse those men 
 
 Who, when the storm's rag'd most, did wake thee then. 
 
 Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil 
 
 All offices of death except to kill. 
 
 But when I wak'd, I saw that I saw not ; 
 
 I and the sun, which should teach me, had forgot. 
 
 East, west, day, night ; and I could only say, 
 
 If the world has lasted, now it had been day. 
 
 Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all 
 
 Could none by his right name but thunder call. 
 
 Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more 
 
 Than if the sun had drunk the sea before. 
 
 Some coffin'd in their cabins lie, equally 
 
 Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet must die ; 
 
 And as sin-burdened souls from grave will creep 
 
 At the last day, some forth their cabins peep, 
 
 And, tremblingly, ask what news, and do hear so ; 
 
 As jealous husbands, what they would not know. 
 
 Some, sitting on the hatches, would seem there, 
 
 ^Yith hideous gazihg, to fear away Fear: 
 
 There note they the ship's sicknesses, the mast 
 
 Shak'd with an ague, and the hold and waist 
 
 With a salt dropsy clogg'd, and our tacklings 
 
 Snapping, like too high-stretched treble strings, 
 
 And from our totter'd sails rags drop down so 
 
 As from one hang'd in chains a year ngo : 
 
 Even our ordinance, plac'd for our defence. 
 
 Strive to break loose, and 'scape away from thence : 
 
 Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gain ? 
 
 Seas into seas thrown we suck in again ; 
 
 Hearing hath deaf'd our sailors ; and if they 
 
 Knew how to hear, thei-e's none knows what to say. 
 
 Compar'd to these storms, death is but a calm, 
 
 Hell somewhat lightsome, the Bermud a calm. 
 
 Darkness, Light's eldest brother, his birth-right 
 
 Claim'd o'er this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light. 
 
 All things are one, and that one none can be. 
 
 Since all forms uniform deformity 
 
 Doth cover ; so that we, esce]it God say 
 
 Another fight, shall have no more day : 
 
 So violent, yet long these furies be, 
 
 That though thine absence serve me I wish not thee." 
 
 Davies. In the works of this poet there is unusual merit and 
 originality, although the opposite character of his two principal 
 works, excites almost a feeling of ludicrous paradox, the subject of 
 one being the InunortalHy of the Soul, and that of the otlier Or- 
 chestra, a Poem on Dancing. The language of his works is pure,
 
 Davies. 571 
 
 and the versification smooth and melodious ; while at the same time 
 his rhymes never mislead the sense, but are rather led and governed 
 by it. The poem on the Immortality of the Soul, is written in four 
 lined stanzas of heroic lines, which was adopted later on by Dryden. 
 There is to be seen in it a real depth of philosophy, which is the 
 more to be admired in the easy and significant words into which 
 Davies has moulded his thoughts, and conveyed the most profound 
 speculations in the easiest possible language. It is an able and 
 skilful piece of reasoning, frequently adorned with rich and agree- 
 able imagery, but is more readable for its philosophy than its poetry. 
 Take for instance the section, in which the poet reasons upon 
 the vegetative power of the soul. 
 
 "Her quick'ning power in ev'ry living part, 
 Doth as a nurse, or as a mother serve ; 
 And doth employ lier aiconomic art, 
 
 And busy care, her household to preserve. 
 
 Here she attracts, and there she doth attain ; 
 
 There she decocts, and dotli the food prepare ; 
 There she distributes it to ev'rj- vein, 
 
 There she expels what she may fitly spare. 
 
 This pow'r to Martlia may com])ared be, 
 Who busy was, the household things to do : 
 
 Or to a Dryas, living in a tree : 
 
 For e'en to trees this powV is proper too. 
 
 And though the Soul may not this pow'r extend. 
 
 Out of the Body, but still use it there ; 
 She hath a power which she abroad doth send, 
 
 Which views and searchelh all things ev'rywhere. ' 
 
 In the other poem, Tlie Orchestra, the poet has ingeniously traced 
 
 the dancing movements throughout all nature, in the following 
 
 peculiarly constructed stanza. 
 
 " Behold the wcjrld how it is whirled round, 
 And for it is so wliirl'd, is named so ; 
 In whose large volume many rules are .found 
 Of this new art, which it doth fairly show : 
 For your quick eyes in wand'ring to and fro 
 From l'".ast to West, on no one thing can glance, 
 Hut if you mark it well, it seems to dance. 
 
 First you see fix'd in this huge mirror blue 
 
 Of trend>ling lights, a number numberless, 
 Fix'd they are nam'd, but with a name untrue.
 
 572 Minor Poets of the. Elizabethan Era. 
 
 For they all move, and in a dance express 
 That great long year that doth contain no less 
 Than threescore hundreds of those years in all, 
 Which the sun makes with his course natural. 
 
 * -X- * * * 
 Who doth not see the measures of the moon, 
 
 Which thirteen times she danceth ev'ry year ? 
 And ends her pavin, thirteen times as soon 
 As doth her In'other, of whose golden hair 
 She borroweth part and proudly doth it wear : 
 Then doth she coyly turn her face aside, 
 That half her cheek is scarce sometimes descried. 
 
 * * * * * 
 For when you lireathe, the air in order moves, 
 
 Now in, now out, in time and measure true ; 
 And when you speak, so well she dancing loves, 
 That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new. 
 With thousand forms she doth herself endue : 
 For all the words that from your lips repair, 
 Are naught but tricks and turnings of the air. 
 
 Hence is her prattling daughter Echo born. 
 
 That dances to all voices she can hear : 
 There is no sound so harsh that she doth scorn, 
 Nor any time wherein she will forbear 
 The airy pavement with her feet to wear : 
 And yet her hearing sense is nothing quick, 
 For after time she endeth ev'ry trick." 
 
 Hall. Joseph Hall was the first who wrote satire in English 
 verse with any degree of elegance or success. There is more polish 
 in his satires, than in many of the compositions of this age ; and they 
 are full of animation, both in style and sentiment. His characters 
 are strongly delineated, and contain much genuine humour. In 
 some of these satires the vices and affectations of literature are 
 attacked, while others are of a more general and moral application. 
 They are worthy of the highest admiration for the vivacity of their 
 images, and the good sense which pervades them throughout. One 
 of the best passages is the opening of the first satire in the Third 
 book, in which he contrasts ancient parsimony, with modern lux- 
 ury : it is both witty and elegant. 
 
 "Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, 
 When world and lime were young, that now arc old : 
 When quiet Saturn sway'd the mace of lead. 
 And pride was yet unborn, and yet unbred.
 
 Davison. 578 
 
 Time was, that whiles the autumn-fall did last, 
 And hungry sires gap"d for the falling mast. 
 Could no unhusked acorn leave the tree. 
 But there was challenge made whose it might be. 
 And if some nice and liquorous appetite 
 Desir'd more dainty dish of rare delight. 
 They scaled the stored crab with clasped knee, 
 Till they had sated their delicious ee, 
 Or search'd the hopeful thicks of hedgy-rows, 
 For briery berries, hawes, or sour sloes ; 
 Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all. 
 They lick'd oak-leaves besprint with honey-fall. 
 As for the thrice three-angled beech-nut shell. 
 Or chestnut's armed husk, and hid kernel, 
 Nor squire durst touch, the law would not aftbrd, 
 Kept for the court, and for the king's own board. 
 Their royal plate was clay, or wood, or stone. 
 The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none. 
 Their only cellar was the neighbour brook, 
 None did for better care, for better look." 
 
 Davison. Francis Davison deserves mention as a miscellane- 
 ous writer of poetry. He was a contributor to the " Poetical 
 Rhapsody," a collection of poetry, of which the first edition appeared 
 in 1602. 
 
 "It chanc'd of late a shepherd swain. 
 That went to seek his straying sheep, 
 Within a thicket on a plain 
 
 Espied a dainty Nymph asleep. 
 
 Her golden hair o'erspread her face ; 
 
 Her careless arms abroad were cast ; 
 Her quiver had her pillow's place : 
 
 Her breast lay bare to every blast. 
 
 The shepherd stood, and gaz'd his fill ; 
 
 Nought durst he do ; nought durst lie say ; 
 Whilst cliance, or else perhaps his will, 
 
 Did guide the God of Love that way. 
 
 The crafty boy that sees her sleep. 
 
 Wl:om, if she wak'd, he durst not see ; 
 Behind her closely seeks to creep, 
 
 Before her nap should ended be. 
 
 There come, lie steals her shafts away, 
 
 And puts his own into their place ; 
 Nor dares he any longer stay, 
 
 i5ut, ere she wakes, hies thence aixace. 
 
 Scarce was he gone, but she awakes. 
 And spies the shepherd standing by :
 
 574 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era, 
 
 Her bended bow in haste she takes, 
 And at the simple swain lets fly. 
 
 Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, 
 
 That to the ground he fell with pain : 
 Yet up again forthwith did start, 
 
 And to the Nymph he ran amain. 
 
 Amayed to see so strange a sight, 
 
 She shot and shot but all in vain ; 
 The more his wounds, the more his might, 
 
 Love yielded strength amidst his pain. 
 
 Her angry eyes were great with tears, 
 
 She blames her hand, she blames her skill ; 
 
 The bluntness of her shafts she fears. 
 And try them on herself she will." 
 
 Sandys. The chief poetical work of this n riter was a transla- 
 tion of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Besides this, he wrote Paraphrases 
 of the Psaljns, Ecciesiastes, ^x., the former of which are incompar- 
 ably the most poetical in the English language. The following 
 extracted as an example. 
 
 PSALM XLV. 
 
 "With heart divine-inspired, I sing 
 A panegyrick to the King ; 
 High raptures in a numerous style, 
 I with a ready pen compile 
 Much fairer than our human race ; 
 Whose lips like fountains flow with grace ; 
 P'or this the Lord thy soul shall bless 
 With everlasting happiness. 
 Gird, O most Mighty, on thy thigh 
 Thy sword of awe and majesty: 
 In triumph, arm'd with truth ride on ; 
 By clemency and justice drawn : 
 No mortal vigour shall withstand 
 The fury of thy dreadful hand ; 
 Thy piercing arrows in the King's 
 Opposers' hearts shall dye their wings. 
 Thy throne no waste of time decays ; 
 Thy sceptre sacred justice sways : 
 Thou virtue lov'st ; but hast abhorr'd 
 Deformed vice ; for this, the Lord 
 Hath thee alone preferr'd. and shed 
 The oil of joy upon thy head. 
 'I"hy garments, which in grace excel, 
 Of aloes, myrrh, and cassia smell ; 
 IJroughl from the ivory palaces ; 
 Whicli more than other odours please.
 
 Alexander. 576 
 
 King's daughters, to augment thy state 
 Among the noble damsels wait ; 
 The queen enthroned on thy right hand. 
 Adorn'd with Opliyr's golden sand. 
 Hark, daughter, and by me be taught ; 
 Thy country banish from thy thought, 
 .Thy house and family forget, 
 His joy, upon thy beauty set. 
 He is thy Lord ; oh bow before, 
 And Him eternally adore !" 
 
 Alexander. William Alexander was another of the Scotch 
 poets of this date. His chief works are DoomesDay, and Aurora. 
 There are some excellent passages to be found in these poems, 
 and the versification of both is excellent. The following is ex- 
 tracted from the Doomes-Day. 
 
 "The stately Heavens which c;lory doth array. 
 Are mirrors of (lod's admirable might ; 
 
 There, whence forth S]ireads the night, forth springs the day, 
 He fix'd the fountains of this temjioral light, 
 Wliere stately stars installed, some stand, some stray, 
 All sparks of his great power (though small yet bright,) 
 By what none utter can. no, not conceive, 
 All of his greatness, Bh.adows may perceive. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 What ebbs, flows, swells, and sinks, who firm doth keep? 
 Whilst floods from th' earth burst in abundance out 
 As she her brood did wash, or for them weep : 
 Who, (having life) what dead things prove, dare doubt 
 Who first did found the dungeons of the deep? 
 But one in all, o'crall, above, about : 
 The floods for our delight, first calm were set, 
 Ihil storm and roar, since men did Ciod forget. 
 
 Who parts the swelling spouts that sift the rain ? 
 Who reins the winds, the waters doth empale? 
 Who frowns in storms, then smiles in calms again, 
 And doth dis]x>nsc the treasures of the hail ? 
 Wiiose l)OW doth bended in the clouds remain? 
 Whose darts (dread thunder-bolts) make men look pale? 
 Even thus these things to show his ]iowcr aspire. 
 As shadows do the Sun. as smoke doth fire. 
 
 God visibly invisible who reigns. 
 
 Soul of nil souls, whose light each light directs, 
 
 All first tlid freely make, and still maintains, 
 
 'l"he greatest rules, the meanest not neglects ; 
 
 Fore-knows the end of all that he ordains, 
 
 His will each cause, each cause breeds fit effects,
 
 576 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 Who did make all, all thus could only lead, 
 None could make all, but who was never made." 
 
 OvERBURY. Sir Thomas Overbury is the writer of two didactic 
 
 poems, The [fV/Q', and Tiie Choice of a Wife, and other small pieces 
 
 in prose and verse. The following epitaph which was written for 
 
 himself is very beautiful. 
 
 " Now, measured out my days, 'tis here I rest ; 
 That is my body, but my soul, his guest, 
 Is hence ascended whither neither time, 
 Nor faith, nor hope, but only love can climb; 
 Where being now^ enlighten'd she doth know 
 The truth of all things which are talk'd below ; 
 Only this dust shall here in pawn remain, 
 That when the world dissolves she'll come again." 
 
 Corbet. Richard Corbet's poems are of a miscellaneous des- 
 cription, consisting chiefly of elegy, satire, and song. There is a 
 gaiety and lightheartedness in all he wrote, and they everflow with 
 feeling and humour. The following is a specimen of his poetry: 
 
 " What I shall leave thee none can tell, 
 But all shall say I wish thee well : 
 I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth. 
 Both bodily and ghostly health ; 
 Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee. 
 So much of either may undo thee. 
 I wish thee learning, not for show, 
 Enough for to instruct, and know ; 
 Not such as gentlemen require 
 To peate at table, or at fire. 
 I wish thee all thy mother's graces, 
 Thy father's fortunes, and his places. 
 I wish thee friends, and one at court 
 Not to build on, but support ; 
 To keep thee, not in doing many 
 Oppressions, l)ut from sufiering any. 
 I wisli thee peace in all thy ways, 
 Nor lazy nor contentious days ; 
 And when thy soul and body part, 
 As innocent as now thou art." 
 
 Fletcher. Phineas Fletcher was the writer of one of those 
 long allegorical works, which were so fashionable at that period. 
 It was called the Purple Island, or the Isle of Mail, a minute 
 description of the human body, with its anatomical details, follow- 
 ed by an equally searching delineation of the intellectual faculties. 
 The hie represents the human body, with its bones> muscles,
 
 Fletcher. 677 
 
 veins, pictured as so many hills and dales, streams and rivers. The 
 nature of the poem renders it excessively wearisome, yet his style 
 is often lofty, his colouring brilliant ; his language poetical, and 
 his versification harmonious; and the energy with which he at times 
 infuses life into the dullest of things that he touches, is highly effec- 
 tive. The finest passage in this poem is towards the close, where 
 the Virtues, conducted by Intellect, engage in a war with the Vices. 
 The battle is against the former, when Eclecta (the church) prays 
 for heavenly aid, and the conflict follows. 
 
 "The broken Heavens dispart with fearful noise, 
 And from the breach outshoots a sudden light : 
 Straight shrilly trumpets with loud sounding voice 
 Give echoing summons to new bloody fight ; 
 Well knew the dragon that all-quelling blast, 
 And soon perceived that day must be the last ; 
 Which shook his frighten'd heart, and all his troops aghast. 
 
 ***** 
 So up he rose upon his stretched sails 
 Fearless expecting his approaching death ; 
 So up he arose, that the air starts and fails, 
 And overpress'd, sinks his load beneath : 
 So up he arose, as does a thunder cloud. 
 Which all the earth with shadows black doth shroud : 
 So up he arose, and through the weary air he row'd. 
 
 Now his Almighty Foe far off he spies ; 
 Whose sun-like arms dazed the eclipsed day. 
 Confounding with their beams less glittering skies, 
 Firing the air with more than heavenly ray ; 
 Like thousand suns in one ; such is their light, 
 A suliject only for immortal sprite ; 
 Which never can be seen, but by immortal sight. 
 
 His armour all was dy'd in purple blood : 
 (In purple blood of thousand rebel kings) 
 In vain their stubliorn powers His arm witlistood ; 
 
 Tlieir proud necks chain"d. He now in trium[>h brings. 
 And breaks their spears, and cracks their traitor swords : 
 U|>on whose arms and thigh in golden words 
 Was fairly writ, 'The King of kings, and \joxA of lords.' 
 
 His snow-white steed was l)orn of heavenly kind, 
 begot by liiireoas on the Thracian hills ; 
 More strong and speedy than his parent wind : 
 And (which his foes with fear and horror lills) 
 Out from his nioulh a two-edged swurd he darts : 
 \\ h()>e sharjiest steel the bone and marrow parts, 
 .'Vnd with his keenest point unbrcast the naked hearts. 
 
 W
 
 578 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 The Dragon wounded with his flaming brand 
 They take, and in strong bonds and fetters tie ; 
 Short was the fight, nor could he long withstand 
 Him, whose appearance in his victory. 
 So now he's bound in admantine chain : 
 He storms, he roars, he yells for high disdain 
 His net is broke, the fowl go free, the fowler ta'en. 
 
 Soon at this sight the knights revive again, 
 As fresh as when the flowers from winter tomb, 
 (When now the sun brings back his nearer wain.) 
 Peep out again from their fresh mother's womb : 
 The primrose lighted new ; her flame displays, 
 And frights the neighbour hedge with fiery rays ; 
 And all the world renew their mirth and sportive plays. 
 
 The prince, who saw his long imprisonment 
 Now end in never ending liberty ; 
 To meet the Victor from his castle went, 
 And falling down, clasping his royal knee. 
 Pours out deserved thanks in grateful praise, 
 But him the heavenly Saviour soon doth raise. 
 And bids him spend in joy his never-ending days." 
 
 Fletcher. Giles Fletcher, the brother of the former poet, is 
 the writer of the poem Christ's Victory and Triumph, written after 
 the allegorical style of Spenser. There is exhibited in it a fertility 
 of invention, and a rich store of fancy, worthy of the sublime sub- 
 ject itself. The style is both lofty and energetic, the descriptions 
 natural and graphic, and the construction of the verse graceful and 
 harmonious. The only fault is that he shows bad taste in the 
 selection of his thoughts, and has intn^duced among his sacred 
 themes, characters from, and allusions to profane history, which jar 
 upon the sense and bear us away from the solemn grandeur of the 
 great theme. The poem is divided into four parts, Christ's Victory 
 in Heaven ; Christ's Triumph on Earth ; Christ's Triumph over 
 Death ; Christ's Triumph after Death ; the first having reference 
 to the Incarnation ; the second to the Temptation ; the third to the 
 Crucifixion ; and the fourth to the Resurrection. The poem, how- 
 ever, amply compensates for all its defects The following passage 
 may l^e quoted as the finest specimen of this poem. 
 
 " Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire. 
 And stick'st thy habit full of daises red ? 
 Seems that tbou dost to some high thought aspire.
 
 Beaumont, 579 
 
 And some new-found-out bridegroom mean'st to wed ? 
 
 Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled, 
 
 So never let the spiteful canker waste you. 
 
 So never let the Heavens with lightning blast you, 
 
 Why go you now so trimly dress'd, or whither haste you ? 
 
 Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide 
 
 So often wanders from this nearest way, 
 
 As though some other way thy stream would slide, 
 
 And fain salute the place where something lay, 
 
 And you sweet birds, that, shaded from the ray, 
 Sit carolling, and piping grief away, 
 The while the lambs to hear you dance and play. 
 
 Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say ? 
 
 Ye primroses, and purple violets. 
 Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, 
 And woo men's hands to rent you from your sets. 
 As though you would somewhere be carried, 
 With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished ? 
 
 But ah ! I need not ask, 'tis surely so. 
 
 You all would to your Saviour's triumph go, 
 There would ye all await, and humble homage do. 
 
 There should the earih herself with garlands new 
 
 And lovely flowers embellished adore : 
 
 Such roses never in her garland grew, 
 
 Such lillics never in her breast she wore, 
 
 Like l)eauty never yet did shine before : 
 There should the Sun another Sun behold, 
 From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, 
 
 That kindle Heaven and Earth with beauties manifold. 
 
 There might the violet, and primrose sweet, 
 Beams of more lively, and more lovely grace. 
 Arising from their beds of incense, meet ; 
 There should the swallow see new life embrace 
 Dead ashes, and the grave unseal his face, 
 
 To let the living from his bowels creep, 
 
 Unal)le longer iiis own dead to keep : 
 There Heaven and Earth should see their Lortl awake from sleep. 
 
 * * )(-)(* 
 
 Hark how the floods clap tiicir applauding hands, 
 Tlie ])leasant valleys singing for delight. 
 And wanton mountains dance .about the lands, 
 The while the fields, struck with the b.ea\enly light, 
 Let all their llowcrs a smiling at the sight ; 
 
 The trees l,".iit;h w ith tlieir blossoms, and the sound 
 
 Of the triuni])]] fhoul of praise, that crown'd 
 The tlamini; l.amb, breaking tlirougli Heaven hath [passage found.'' 
 
 I?EAUM()NT, Sir John I^eaiimont is the Author of Bosxcorth 
 
 Field, written in the heroic couplet ; and other poems. I le was the
 
 580 Minor Poets from Chaucer to Elizabeth. 
 
 elder brother of Beaumont the dramatist. The following beautiful 
 
 lines upon his son exhibit all that could be said of the poetical 
 
 genius of Beaumont. 
 
 "Can I, who have for others oft compiled 
 The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, 
 Which, like a flower crush'd with a blast is dead, 
 And ere full time hangs down his smiling head, 
 Expecting with clear hope to live anew, 
 Among the angels fed with heavenly dew ? 
 We have this sign of joy, that many days, 
 While on the earth his struggling spirit stays, 
 The name of Jesus in his mouth contains 
 His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. 
 O may that sound be rooted in my mind, 
 Of which in him such strong effect I find. 
 Dear Lord receive my son, whose winning love 
 To me was like a friendship, far above 
 The course of nature, or his tender age, 
 Whose looks could all my belter griefs assuage ; 
 Let his pure soul ordain'd seven years to be 
 In the frail body, which was part of me, 
 Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show, 
 How to this port at every step I go." 
 
 Drumaiond. This poet's principal works arc the Flowers of 
 Slon, short pieces upon sacred subjects ; and a variety of songs and 
 sonnets. The sonnets are the best : they are elegant and fin- 
 ished, and written in pure English/and there are several of them 
 of great beauty. His thoughts are both naturally and gracefully 
 expressed, and are remarkably free from the affectations so con- 
 spicuous in his contemporaries. The following are two specimens 
 of his Sonnets. 
 
 "A good that never satisfies the mind, 
 
 A beauty fading like the April llow'rs, 
 
 A sweet with floods of gall, that runs combin'd, 
 
 A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours, 
 
 A honour that more fickle is tlian wind, 
 
 A glory at opinions frown that low'rs, 
 
 A treasury which bankrupt time devours, 
 
 A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind ; 
 
 A vain deliglit our equals to command, 
 
 A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 
 
 A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 
 
 A servile lot, deck'd with a pompous name ; 
 Are the strange ends we toil for here below. 
 Till wisest death makes us our errors know."
 
 Wither. 581 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 "Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours 
 Of winters past, or coming, void of care, 
 Well pleased with delights which present are. 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers : 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers, 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
 And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
 A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
 What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs 
 (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
 Quite to forget Earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven? 
 Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
 To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays." 
 
 Wither. Wither's most important work is the Shepherd's 
 
 Hiifitittg, a collection of poems somewhat of a pastoral character 
 
 in which there are many rural descriptions of exquisite fancifulness 
 
 and beauty, united with a sweet and pure tone of moral reflection. 
 
 The Shepherd'' s Hunting, is a dialogue between Roget and Willy, 
 
 which is held in the Marshalsea Prison. The caged poet after a 
 
 lengthened description of the pleasures that live with Freedom, 
 
 describes the only consolation left to him the companionship of 
 
 the Muse. We quote as a specimen the following well-known 
 
 passage, 
 
 "As the sun doth oft exhale 
 Vapours from each rotten vale ; 
 I'oesy so sometimes drains. 
 Gross conceits from nuukly brains ; 
 Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 
 Twixt men's judgments and her light : 
 l!ut so much her power may do. 
 That she can dissolve them too. 
 If thy verse do bravely tower. 
 As she makes wing, she gets' power ; 
 \'ct the higher she doth soar, 
 She's affronted still the more : 
 Till she to the high'st hath past, 
 Then she rests with fame at last, 
 Let nought therefore thee affright, 
 ]5ut make forward in thy ilight : 
 For if I could match thy rhyme, 
 To the very stars I'd climb. 
 There begin again, and lly, 
 Till I reach'tl eternity.
 
 582 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 But (alas) my muse is slow : 
 For thy page she flags too low ; 
 Yes, the moi-e's her hapless fate, 
 Her short wings were dipt of late. 
 And poor I, her fortune rueing, 
 Am myself put up a muing. 
 But if I my cage can lid, 
 I'll fly where I never did. 
 And though for her sake I am crost, 
 Though my best hopes I have lost, 
 And knew she would make my trouble 
 Ten times more than ten times double : 
 I would love and keep her too, 
 Spite of all the world could do. 
 For though banish'd from my flocks. 
 And confin'd within these rocks, 
 Here I waste away the light, 
 And consume the sullen night, 
 She doth for my comfort stay, 
 And keeps many cares away. 
 Therefore thou best earthly bliss, 
 I will cherish thee for this." 
 
 Carew. This poet's works are chiefly short and amorous, and 
 were greatly admired in their day. They are pre-eminently beautiful, 
 compared to those of other poets of his style and age ; and he has 
 been ranked amongst the earliest of those writers, who first bestowed 
 grace and polish on our lyrical poetry. The masque, CcBluni Bri- 
 tanniaan is his most important work ; written in prose and poetry. 
 In this poem, Mercury, Momus, Poverty, and Pleasure, and a vast 
 concourse of attendants appear, and after having "spoken their 
 speeches," are succeeded by Druids, Rivers, and Kingdoms, sum- 
 moned by the Genius of Britain, to do homage to Royalty. Religion, 
 Truth and Wisdom, and a host of virtues follow and then pass, 
 "leaving nothing but a serene sky." It was written by express 
 command of Charles the First, in which, when it was performed he 
 sustained a part. The following passage is a specimen of this 
 work : 
 
 "Bewitching Syren ! gilded rottenness! 
 Thou hast with cunning artifice display'd 
 Th' enamell'd out-side, and the honied verge 
 Of the fair cup where deadly poison lurks. 
 Within, a thousand Sori'ows dance the round j 
 And, hke a shell, Pain circles thee without.
 
 Broivne. 583 
 
 Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps, 
 
 Which, as thy joys 'gin towards their West decline. 
 
 Doth to a giant's spreading form extend 
 
 The dwarfish statue. Thou thyself art Pain, 
 
 Greedy intense Desire ; and the keen edge 
 
 Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee, 
 
 And cuts thy slender thread ; but still the terror 
 
 And apprehension of thy hasty end 
 
 Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets ; 
 
 Yet thy Circean charms transform the world, 
 
 Cai:)tains that have resisted war and death, . 
 
 Nations that over Fortune's have triumph'd. 
 
 Are by thy magic made effeminate : 
 
 Empires, that knew no limits but pole. 
 
 Have in thy meltomed lap melted away : 
 
 Thou wert the author of thy first excess 
 
 That drew this reformation on the Gods. 
 
 Canst thou then dream, those Powers, that from Ileaven 
 
 15anish'(l th' effect, while there enthrone the cause ? 
 
 To thy voluptuous den, fly Witch, from hence ; 
 
 There dwell, for ever drown'd in brutish sense." 
 
 Browne. The principal work of this poet, and that to which 
 he owes his reputation, is the poem, Ih-iitannids Pastorals. It is 
 divided into ten songs, in which a variety of personages, real and 
 fictitious are introduced : it is built upon a dreamy but not a sys- 
 tematic adoration of Nature ; and has been said by a writer to 
 "resemble a piece of gorgeous tapestry, where the drawing is fine, 
 and the colours are gay and vivid, but in which there is a total 
 want of keeping, and an absence of harmony, both in design and 
 execution." A great defect in his writings, is that the descriptions 
 are often too extravagant, yet the reader who is willing to pass 
 over his defects, will find many of the highest beauties l^eauties 
 perhaps unsurpassed by any author in the English language. His 
 poetry is sometimes full of the most intense fire; and the richest 
 imagination, while his versification is easy and harmonious, and 
 exhibits a complete mastery over the English ton<jue. His allego- 
 ries arc nevertheless tame and spiritless, and the rural descriptions 
 which arc contained in his works, have the common defect, that is, 
 of want of probability in the scenes and characters. The following 
 specimens of his ]ioctry, will amply illustrate his style. For ex- 
 ample the following passage from the Brittannia's Pastorals.
 
 584 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era, 
 
 "Now as an angler melancholy standing, 
 Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, 
 A wrij^gling yellow worm thrust on his hook. 
 Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook 
 Here pulls his line, there throws it in again. 
 Mending his croke and bait, but all in vain. 
 He long stands viewing of the curled stream ; 
 At last a hungiy pike, or well-grown bream, 
 Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away, 
 He, knowing it a fish of stubborn way. 
 Pulls up his rod, but soft ; (as having skill) 
 Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 My free-born Muse will not, like Danea, be 
 Won with base dross to clip with slavery ; 
 Nor lend her choicer blame to worthless men, 
 - Whose names would die but for some hired pen ; 
 No : if I praise, virtue shall draw me to it, 
 And not a base procurement make me do it. 
 What now I sing is but to pass away 
 A tedious hour, as some musicians play ; 
 Or make another my own griefs bemoan ; 
 Or to be least alone whom most alone. 
 In this can I, as oft as I will choose. 
 Hug sweet content by my retired Muse, 
 And in a study find as much to please 
 As others in the greatest palaces. 
 Each man that lives (according to his power) 
 On what he loves bestows an idle hour ; 
 Instead of hounds that make the wooded hills 
 Talk in a hundred voices to the rills, 
 I like the pleasing cadence of a line. 
 Struck by the concert of the sacred Nine. 
 In lieu of hawks, the raptures of my soul 
 Transcend their pitch and baser earth's control. 
 For running horses, contemplation flies 
 With quickest speed to win the greatest prize. 
 For courtly dancing I can take more pleasure 
 To hear a verse keep time and equal measure. 
 For winning riches, seek the best directions 
 How I way well subdue mine own affectionsi 
 For raising stately piles for heirs to come. 
 Here in this poem I erect my tomb. 
 And time may be so kind, in these weak lines 
 To keep my name cnroH'd, past his, that shines 
 In gilded marble, or in brazen leaves : 
 Since verse preserves when stone and brass deceives." 
 
 King. Henry King is a miscellaneous writer of poetry, chiefly 
 religious ; also a version of the Psalms. The language of his
 
 Herrick. 585 
 
 poetry is choice, and his thoughts elevated. Many of the poems 
 
 are of exceeding beauty : the verses My Midnight Meditation, 
 
 may be read as a good example. 
 
 "Ill-busied Man 1 why should'st thou take such care 
 To lengthen out thy life's short calendar ? 
 When every spectacle thou look'st upon, 
 Presents and acts thy execution. 
 
 Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, 
 -Fool I as I fade and wither, thou must die.' 
 
 The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well) 
 Is just the tolling of thy passing bell : 
 Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy. 
 Covets alike deceased day and thee. 
 
 And all those weeping dews which nightly fall, 
 
 Are but the tears shed for thy funeral." 
 
 Herrick. The lyrical poetry of Robert Herrick, exhibits a 
 redundancy of fancy, fine feeling, and thrilling pathos, which 
 makes it surprising that he is so little known as a poet. His ver- 
 sification is peculiarly graceful and harmonious, and his lines seem' 
 at once suggestive of melody. There are to be found occasionally 
 coarse and indelicate passages, but on the whole his poem breathes 
 the tenderest passion, and refinement of feeling. Some of his 
 poems moralize in a strain of pleasing melancholy upon natural 
 objects ; of which kind we might quote the following verses, To 
 Daffodils as a beautiful specimen, There is contained in it a moral 
 pathos of the most touching kind. 
 
 " Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 Vou haste away so soon ; 
 As yet the earthly-rising sun 
 Has not attain'd his noon. 
 
 Stay, stay, 
 Until the hast'ning day 
 
 Has run 
 But to the even-song ; 
 And, having prayed together, we 
 Will go with you along. 
 
 We have short time to stay like you ; 
 
 We iiave as short a sprint; ; 
 As ([uick a growth to meet decay 
 As viiu or any tliin</. 
 
 We die 
 As your hours do, and (.lie 
 Away,
 
 586 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era, 
 
 Like to the summer's rain ; 
 Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
 Ne'er to be found again." 
 
 QUARLES. Francis Quarks wrote largely both in prose and 
 
 verse ; but his chief work in the latter is a collection of Divine 
 
 EmbletnSf a set of short poems of a most c^uaint character, illustrated 
 
 with pictorial designs referring to the subject of the verses, which 
 
 are all of a moral and religious tone. The extraordinary style of 
 
 his poems is borrowed from the Dutch and Flemish moralists. 
 
 The engravings are allegorical, and of a most absurd description. 
 
 For example, "who will deliver me from the body of this death ?" 
 
 is represented by a man standing within a skeleton, typifying the 
 
 soul. Another of a different character consists of a helmet, turned 
 
 into a beehive, surrounded by its useful labourers, with the motto, 
 
 "Ex hello pax." The works of this poet are affected and obscure, 
 
 and it is only by diligent investigation that his true beauties are 
 
 to be found ; not only in the form of original imagery, fertility of 
 
 expression and happy combinations, but, in many places, his poems 
 
 breathe an intense spirit of religious fervour. At the time his 
 
 verses were written, they were more popular than those of the 
 
 gayest court poets, being recommended by a peculiar harshness 
 
 and gloom accordant with the Puritan feelings of the larger part 
 
 of the people : but at the time of Pope, they were ranked with the 
 
 meanest trash that then appeared. As an example of these poems, 
 
 take the following verses from the Divine Emblems : 
 
 "O ! whither shall I fly ? what path untrod 
 Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod 
 Of my offended, of my angry God ; 
 Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide 
 My head from thunder ? where shall I abide, 
 Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside? 
 What if my feet should take their hasty flight, 
 And seek protection in the sliades of night? 
 Alas ! no shades can blind the God of liijht. 
 What if my soul should take the wings of day 
 And find some desert ? if she springs away. 
 The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they. 
 What if some solid rock should entertain 
 My frighted soul ? can solid rocks restrain 
 The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain ?
 
 Walton. 587 
 
 Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave, 
 
 Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, 
 
 When flamc-ey'd I'\iry means to smite, can save. 
 
 'Tis vain to flee, till gentle mercy show 
 
 Her better eye, the further off we go. 
 
 The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow. 
 
 Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly 
 
 His angry mother's hand ; but clings more nigh, 
 
 And quenches with his tears her flaming eye. 
 
 Great God ! there is no safety here below 
 
 Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe, 
 
 ' Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow. 
 
 Then work thy will ; if passion bid me flee. 
 
 My reason shall obey ; my wings shall be 
 
 Stretch'd out no further than from thee to thee." 
 
 Walton. Izaak Walton's chief work is the well-known poem, 
 
 entitled T/ie Complete Angler, a treatise on fishing, which contains 
 
 not only precepts for the sport, but describes with much simplicity 
 
 and feeling, English scenes and pleasures, and contains such a 
 
 tone of pure benevolence and morality, that as a poem it is almost 
 
 perfect. There is scarcely a poem to be found in which English 
 
 scenery is delineated with such a truth, as in Walton's description 
 
 of those quiet rivers and daisied meadows in this poem. It is 
 
 written in the form of dialogues. Some of the lyrics contained in 
 
 it are very beautiful. The following TJie Angler's Song, quoted 
 
 below, is a specimen of this work. 
 
 "As inward love breeds outward talk, 
 
 The hound some praise, and some the hawk ; 
 
 Some, better pleased with private sport, 
 
 Love tennis ; some a mistress' court : 
 
 I!ut these deli/^hts I neither wish, 
 
 Nor cnv)', while I freely fish. 
 
 Who hunts doth oft in danger ride ; 
 
 Who hawks hues oft both far and wide ; 
 
 Who uses games shall often prove 
 
 A loser ; hut who falls in lovo 
 
 Is fclter'd in fond C'upid's snare: 
 
 My angle breeds me no such care. 
 
 Of recreation, tliere is none 
 So free as fishing is alone ; 
 
 All oilier [)asUnies do no less 
 
 Than mind and body botli possess; 
 
 My hantl alone my work can ilo, 
 
 So I can iish and study too.
 
 688 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 I care not, T, to fish in seas, 
 
 Fresh rivers best my mind do please ; 
 
 Whose sweet calm course I contemplate ; 
 
 And seek in life to imitate ; 
 
 In civil bonds I fain would keep, 
 
 And for my past offences weep. 
 
 And when the timorous trout I wait 
 To take, and he devours my bait, 
 How poor a thing, sometimes, I find, 
 Will captivate a greedy mind : 
 And when none bite, I praise the wise, 
 Whom vain allurements ne'er surprise. 
 
 I5ut yet though while I fish I fast, 
 I make good fortune my repast, 
 And thereunto my friend invite. 
 In whom I more than that delight; 
 Who is more welcome to my dish. 
 Than to my angle was my fish. 
 
 As well content no prize to take. 
 As use of taken prize to make ; 
 For so our Lord was pleased, when 
 He fishers made fishers of men ; 
 Where (which is in no other game,) 
 A man can fish and i:)raise his name. 
 
 The first men, that our Saviour dear 
 Did choose to wait upon him here, 
 Blest fishers were and fish the last 
 Food was, that He on earth did taste ; 
 I therefore strive to follow those 
 Whom He to follow Ilim hath chose." 
 
 Herbert. Herbert's poems, which are principally religious, 
 consist chiefly of short lyrics, uniting with beautiful pictures of 
 nature, the most quiet aspiration ; and as a writer has observed, 
 "decorating the altar with the sweetest and most fragrant flowers 
 of fancy and wit." His chief work is 77/^? Te7nple j it consists of a 
 number of short pieces, commemorating such topics as Good Fri- 
 day, Baptism, Church Music, Church Monuments, &c. Coleridge 
 says of these lyrics, " To appreciate them, it is not enough that the 
 reader possesses a cultivated judgment, classical taste, or even 
 poetic sensibility, unless he be likewise a Christian, and both a 
 zealot and an orthodox, both a devout and devotional Christian." 
 Herbert's life, like his works, was purely religious, and he was 
 certainly one of the most perfect models that have ever adorned
 
 Shirley. 589 
 
 the Anglican Church. He was known among his contemporaries 
 as "holy George Herbert." The following extract from his poem 
 The Temple, will sufficiently testify both to his character as a 
 divine, and his merit as a poet. 
 
 THE FLOWER. 
 
 " How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
 And thy returns ! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring ; 
 
 To which, besides their own demean, 
 The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
 Grief melts away like snow in May ; 
 
 As if there were no such cold thing. 
 
 Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart 
 Could have rccover'd greenness ? It was gone 
 
 Quite under ground, as flow'rs depart 
 To see their mother root, when they have blown ; 
 Where they, together, all the hard weather, 
 
 Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 
 
 These are thy wonders, Lord of power ! 
 Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to hell. 
 
 And up to heaven, in an hour ; 
 Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 
 We say amiss 'This, or that, is ; ' 
 
 Thy word is all ; if we could spell." 
 
 Shirley. James Shirley is chiefly distinguished as a comedy 
 
 writer, and in this kind of writing he excelled rather in his vivid 
 
 portraiture of character, than for profound tracings of human nature. 
 
 There is also in the comic scenes of Shirley, a refinement which 
 
 completely distances the productions of his contemporaries. He 
 
 wrote thirty-nine tragedies, comedies, and tragi-comedies, the 
 
 greater number of which were to the highest degree popular in his 
 
 own time, and in each style of which he excels. Besides these, he 
 
 wrote a number of poems, the principal of which are short pieces, 
 
 and amongst which many may be found of great beauty. His 
 
 works show him to be comparatively free from the ^vice of his 
 
 age, although he occasionally dwells upon themes unworthy of the 
 
 Muse. The following poem Death's Final Conquest, from one of 
 
 his plays, may be cpiotcd as a fair specimen of his writing. 
 
 " The glories of our birth and state 
 
 Arc sluidiAvs, not substantial things ; 
 There is ncj armour against fate ; 
 Ucalh lays his icy hands on kings.
 
 590 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 Sceptre and crown 
 
 Must tumble down, 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
 They tame but one another still. 
 Early or late 
 They stoop to fate, 
 And must give up their murmuring breath, 
 When they pale captives creep to death. 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow, 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 Upon Death's purple altar now 
 
 See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
 All hands must come 
 To the cold tomb. 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet and blossom in the dust." 
 
 Storer. Thomas Storer is the author of a poem on Tlie Life 
 
 and Death of Cardinal Wohey ; also England'' s Patnassus, The 
 
 following passage on Theology, is selected from the latter. 
 
 "In chariot, framed of celestial mould, 
 And simple pureness of the purest sky, 
 A more than heavenly Nymph I did behold, 
 Who, glancing on me with her gracious eye, 
 So gave me leave her beauty to espy ; 
 For sure no sense such sight can comprehend. 
 Except her beams their fair rcsplendance lend. 
 
 ITer beauty with eternity began, 
 
 And only unto God was ever seen ; 
 
 When Eden was possess'd with sinful man, 
 
 She came to him, and gladly would have been 
 
 The long-succeeding world's eternal queen : 
 
 ]5ut Man rejected her ; Oh I heinous deed ! 
 
 And from the garden banish'd was that seed. 
 
 Since when, at sundrj' times, in divers ways. 
 Atheism and Ijlinded Ignorance conspire. 
 How to obscure those holy burning rays, 
 And quench that zeal of heart's inflaming fire. 
 Which makes our souls to heavenly things aspire : 
 But all in vain ; for, maugre all their might, 
 She never lost one sparkle of her light. 
 
 Pearls may be foil'd, and gold be changed to dross, 
 The sun obscured, the moon be turn'd to blood ; 
 The world may sorrow for Astra;a's loss.
 
 Waller. Randolph. 691 
 
 The heavens be darken'd like a dusky wood, 
 Waste deserts lie where wat'ry fountains stood 
 But fair theology (for so she hight) 
 Shall never lose one sparkle of her light." 
 
 Waller. Edmund Waller's poetry is of the style of Charles I. 
 His verses were popular both at their own time and in the 
 succeeding generation ; but although his poetry is both graceful 
 and elegant, he does not come near to Cowley, his contemporary. 
 His chief merit lies in his lyric poetry, from which many beautiful 
 poems may be found. He is rather to be admired for the good 
 sense and good taste with which he has avoided faults, than for 
 the poetical enthusiasm which can alone produce true beauties. 
 The following short piece may be read as one of the best speci- 
 mens of his poetry. 
 
 " Go lovely rose, 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 Tliat now she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee. 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that's young, 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts, where no men al)ide. 
 Thou must have uncommended dieil. 
 
 Small is the wortli 
 Of i)eauty from the light retired ; 
 
 I!id her come forth, 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that slie, 
 The common fate of all things rare, 
 
 May reap in thee: 
 How small a part of lime they sliare, 
 
 That are so wond'rous sweet and fair." 
 
 Randolph. The works of this poet have sunk into an unmer- 
 ited obscurity. His chief productions were two plays, 77u- Muses' 
 Looki/i^i^-Gldss, ^liiiyii/as, TJic Jealous Lover, and otlicr smaller 
 pieces. The two following' extracts from his miscellaneous wri- 
 tings, deserve cpioling ai examples. The first On ihc Pass/on of 
 C/irist, is sublimely conceived, 
 
 " WluU rends the temple's vail, where is day gone ?
 
 692 Minor Poets of the Elizabethan Era. 
 
 How can a general darkness cloud the sun ? 
 
 Astrologers in vain their skill do try ; 
 
 Nature must needs be sick, when God can die." 
 
 The other On the Death of a Nightingale, will rank with any 
 
 pieces of the kind, by any writer of this age. 
 
 "Go, solitary wood, and henceforth be 
 Acquainted with no other harmony 
 Than the pye's chattering, and the shrieking note 
 Of boding owls, and fatal raven's throat ; 
 Thy sweetest chaunter's dead, that warbled forth 
 Lays, that might tempests calm, and still the north, 
 And call down angel's from their glorious sphere 
 To hear her songs, and learn new anthems here." 
 
 Davenant. Sir William Davenant was a writer of miscellane- 
 ous verses, and his only poem of any length is Gondibert. There 
 is nothing real about this poem ; it is cold and abstracted, and 
 affects more by its occasional beauties, majestic sentiments, ingen- 
 uous conceptions, and epigrammatic turns, than by its influence 
 over the fancy or the heart. Although it is long and tedious, how- 
 ever, there is abundance to compensate for its defects ; it is full of 
 chivalrous grandeur, noble thoughts, and harmonious diction, and 
 displays a deep spirit of philosophy. The following verses are 
 selected as an example of this poem. 
 
 ' ' To Astragon, Heav'n for succession gave 
 
 One only pledge, and Birtha was her name ; 
 Whose mother slept where flow'rs grew on her grave, 
 And she succeeded her in face and fame. 
 
 Her beauty princes durst not hope to use. 
 Unless, like poets, for their morning theme ; 
 
 And her mind's beauty they would rather choose, 
 Which did the light in beauty's lanthorn seem. 
 
 She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone 
 With untaught looks, and an unpractis'd heart ; 
 
 Her nets, the most prepar'd could never shun, 
 For Nature spread them in the scorn of Art, 
 
 She never hod in busy cities been. 
 
 Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor ere allay'd with fears 
 Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin ; 
 
 And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. 
 
 But here hor father's precepts gave her skill. 
 Which with incessant business fill'd the hours. 
 
 In Spring, she gather'd blossoms for the still ; 
 In autumn, berries ; and in summer flowers.
 
 Habington, 593 
 
 And a kind Nature, with calm diligence, 
 
 Her own free virtue silently employs, 
 Wliilst she, unheard, does rip'ning growth dispense, 
 
 So were her virtues busy without noise. 
 
 Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends. 
 
 The busy household waits no less on her ; 
 By secret law, each to her beauty bends, 
 
 Though all our lowly mind to that prefer. 
 
 Gracious and free, she breaks upon them all. 
 
 When morning looks : and they, when she does rise, 
 
 Devoutly at her dawn in homage fall. 
 
 And drop like flowers, when evening shuts her eyes." 
 
 Habington. The writings of William Habington are chiefly 
 of an amorous nature, but entirely free from that immorality that 
 often stains the graceful fancies of the poets of this age. His com- 
 positions have in them many and veritable beauties, The following 
 To Castara, is a good example of his poetry. 
 
 "Give me a heart where no impure 
 Disordered passions rage, 
 Which Jealousy doth not obscure. 
 Nor vanity t' expense engage, 
 Nor wooed to madness by quaint oaths, 
 Or the fine rhetoric of clothes. 
 Which not the softness of the age 
 To vice or folly doth decline ; 
 Give me that heart, Castara, for 'tis thine. 
 
 Take thou a heart where no new look 
 
 Provokes new appetite : 
 With no fresh charm of beauty took 
 Or wanton stratagem of wit ; 
 Not idly wand'ring here. and there, 
 Led liy an am'rous eye or ear. 
 Aiming each beauteous mark to hit ; 
 Which virtue doth to one confine : 
 Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'lis mine. 
 
 And now my heart is lodg'd with thee, 
 
 Observe but how it still 
 Doth listen how tliine doth with me ; 
 And guard il well, for else it will 
 Run hitlicr back ; not to be where 
 I am, but 'cause thy heart is here. 
 Hut williout discii)line, or skill, 
 Our liearls shall freely 'tween us move : 
 Should thou or I want hearts, we'd breatlic bylov^.
 
 594 Minor Poets of the Commonwealth Period. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 MINOR POETS OF THE COMMONWEALTH PERIOD. 
 
 Suckling. The works of Sir John Suckling are distinguished 
 by a lively fancy, and an elegant mode of versification, with a 
 descriptive power considerably beyond his contemporaries. His 
 style is between the laughing and the grave, the light and the 
 cordial. He had the art of drawing attention from his object, by 
 fixing it on his manner. The very poems which on examination 
 will be found to have the ground-work of as perfect a faith in na- 
 ture, as the greatest works of the age that had immediately preceded, 
 flutter forth as mere careless trifles ; and thoughts of a deep and 
 painful kind, until examined closely, strike the reader as the merest 
 superficial remarks. He was in fact the connecting-link between 
 the poetry of Elizabeth and that of Charles II, and but for the 
 Puritanism that started up in England, he would have been the 
 leader of a new race of poets. It is curious to observe, how as 
 Puritanism declined, poetry came round again to his peculiar style, 
 for he is certainly the origin of the poetry of Prior and Gay. The 
 following Soiigvci'^y be quoted as a specimen of Sir John Suckling's 
 poetry. 
 
 LOVE TURNED TO HATRED. 
 
 "I will not love one minute more, I swear, 
 No not a minute ; not a sigh or tear 
 Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again, 
 Though thou should'st court me to 't, and wouldst begin, 
 I will not think of thee, but as men do 
 Of debts and sins, and then I'll curse thee too : 
 For thy sake, women shall be nciw to me 
 Less welcome, than at midnight ghosts shall be. 
 I'll hate so perfectly, that it shall be . 
 Treason to love that man that loves as she ; 
 Nay, I will hate the very good, I swear, 
 That's in thy sex, because it done 
 Their very virtue, grace, discourse, and wit, 
 And all for thee ; what, wilt thou love me yet ?" 
 
 Peach A^L Henry Peachan was the writer of the Heroical 
 Devises, from which the following beautiful passage on The Strick- 
 en Deer has been selected.
 
 More. Vaughan. 595 
 
 "The silly Hind, among the thickest green, 
 While nought mistrusting, did at safety go, 
 Her mortal wound received, wi^h arrow keen, 
 Sent singing from a shepherd's secret bow ; 
 And, deadly pierced, can in no place abide. 
 But runs about with arrow in her side. 
 So oft we see the man, whom conscience bad 
 Doth inwardly with deadly torture wound, 
 From place to place to range, with fury mad. 
 And seek his ease by shifting of his ground ; 
 The mean neglecting which would heal the sin, 
 That hourly rankles more and more within." 
 
 More. The chief poetical work of Henry More is a Platonic . 
 
 poem, The Song of the Soul, a work of considerable genius and 
 
 power. The following passage, The Soul in and out of the body, 
 
 will sufficiently exemplify this production. 
 
 "Like as a light, fast lock'd in lantern dark. 
 Wherewith by night our weary steps we guide 
 In slabby streets, and dirty channels madv ; 
 Some weaker rays through the black top do glide. 
 And flusher streams perhaps from horny side : 
 And when we've pass'd the peril of the way, 
 Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, 
 The naked light, how clearly doth it ray, 
 And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer day ! 
 Even so the Soul, in this contracted state. 
 Confined to these strait instruments of sense. 
 More dull and narrowly doth operate ; 
 At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence, 
 Here tastes, tlicre smells ; but, when she's gone from hence, 
 Like naked lamp, slic is one shining sphere, 
 And round about hath perfect cognizance, 
 Whate'er in her horizon doth appear : 
 She is one Orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear." 
 
 Vaughan. Henry Vaughan's works are Olor Iscaniis, Silex 
 
 Scintillans and other minor poems. Although this poet's 
 
 works are harsh and obscure, there are to be found many 
 
 passages of rare excellence. To quote Campbell's words, "he has 
 
 amidst his harsh pages, some scattered thoughts that meet our 
 
 eye, like wild flowers on a barren heath." The following lines on 
 
 The Rainbow, form one of the choicest passages of his poetry. 
 
 "Still young and fine ! but what is still in view 
 We sliglil as old and soil'd, though fresh and new ; 
 How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye
 
 596 Minor Poets of the Commonwealth Period. 
 
 Thy burning, flaming arch did first descry ; 
 When Zerah, Nahor, Abram, Lot, 
 The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot, 
 Did, with intentire looks, watch every hour. 
 For thy new light, and trembled at each shower. 
 
 When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair ; 
 Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; 
 Rain gently spends his honey drops, and pours 
 Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. 
 
 Bright pledge of peace and sunshine ! the sure tie 
 Of thy Lord's hand, the objects of his eye ! 
 When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
 Distant and low, I can in thine see Him, 
 Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne. 
 And minds the covenant betwixt ALL and one." 
 
 Crashaw. The writings of Crashaw are chiefly sacred, and 
 
 exhibit the highest exaltation of religious sentiment. He possessed 
 
 an exquisite fancy ; large powers of description, and great melody 
 
 of verse. His poems are Steps to the Temple, Delights of the 
 
 Muses, and Sacred Poems; also a translation from the Italian ot 
 
 Marino, entitled the Music's Duel, which is one of the finest 
 
 specimens of versification in our language. The following hymn 
 
 O Gloriosa Domina, is a fine example of his verse and style. 
 
 "Hail, most high, most humble one ! 
 Above the world ; below thy Son, 
 Whose blush the moon beauteously mars, 
 And stains the timorous light of stars. 
 He that made all things had not done. 
 Till he had made himself thy Son. 
 The whole world's host would be thy guest, 
 And board himself at thy rich breast ; 
 O boundless hospitality ! 
 The feast of all things feeds on thee. 
 
 The first Eve, mother of our fall, 
 E'er she bore anj-one, slew all. 
 Of her unkind gifts might ^\e have 
 The inheritance of a hiisty grave ; 
 Quick buried in the wanton tomb 
 
 Of one forbidden bit ; 
 Had not a better fruit forbidden it. " 
 
 Denham. One of the most popular productions of this period, 
 
 was the short descriptive poem, entitled Cooper's Hill, by Sir John 
 
 Denham. He is deservedly classed among the fathers of English 
 
 poetry, for his Coopers Hill is one of the earliest attempts to asso-
 
 Sherburne. Lovelace. 597 
 
 ciate local description, with historical and reflective matter to 
 combine reality with fancy and to clothe an ordinary object with 
 the rich garb of imagination. He selected for his theme, a beauti- 
 ful spot near Richmond on the Thames, and in the description 
 both of the scene and the reflections it suggests, he has risen to a 
 noble elevation. The following passage, selected from this poem 
 is very fine. 
 
 " My eye descending from the Hill, surveys 
 Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays, 
 Thames ! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons, 
 By his old sire, to his embraces runs, 
 Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, 
 Like mortal life to meet eternity ; 
 Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, 
 His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, 
 Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 
 O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing. 
 And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring ; 
 Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, 
 Like mothers wliich their infants overlay ; 
 Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 
 Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 
 No unexpected inundations spoil 
 The mower's hopes, or mock the ploughman's toil ; 
 But God-like his unwearied bounty flows ; 
 First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 
 
 * * * * -x- 
 
 O could I flow like thee ! and make thy stream 
 My great example, as it is my theme ; 
 Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull : 
 Strong without rage, without o'crflowing full." 
 
 Sherburne, Sir Edward Sherburne, was the writer of various 
 
 translations and miscellanies at this period. They arc remarkable 
 
 for the sweetness and elegance of their language and verse. Take 
 
 for example the following verses on \.\\Glniiocenis slain by Herod: 
 
 "Go, blessed innocents! and freely pour 
 Vour souls forth in a purj)Ie shower. 
 And, for tiiat little eartii each shall lay down. 
 Purchase a heavenly crown. 
 
 Nor of original pollution fear 
 
 The stains should to your blood adhere ; 
 For yours now shed, ere long >hall in a flood 
 
 Bewash'd of better blood." 
 
 Lovelace. This poet, like Suckling, was another of those lively
 
 698 Minor Poets of. the. Commonwealth Period. 
 
 cavalier poets so common in the reign of Charles I : but he is the 
 most serious and earnest, and has little of the half-passionate, half- 
 jesting love fancy of his rival. His poems consist entirely of short 
 pieces, odes, sonnets, songs, &c., and although there are many of 
 little value, there are others, that will live as long as the language 
 in which they are written. Some of his most charming lyrics were 
 written in prison ; and the beautiful lines To Althea, written in the 
 Gate House at Westminster, reminds us, as a critic has observed, 
 " of the caged bird which learns its sweetest and most plaintive 
 notes, when deprived of its woodland liberty." 
 
 ' ' When love with unconfined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates ; 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 Tp whisper at the grates : 
 While I lie tangled in her hair 
 
 And fetter'd to her eye ; 
 The gods that wanton in the air, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 W'hen flowing cups run swiftly round 
 
 With no alla}dng Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses bound, 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
 When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 WTien (like committed linnets) I 
 
 W^ith shriller throat shall sing, 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 
 
 And glories of my king ; 
 When 1 shall voice aloud, how good 
 
 He is, how gi^eat should be ; 
 Enlarged winds that curl the flood, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage ; 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free ; 
 Angels alone that soar above 
 
 Enjoy such liberty." 
 
 Cowley. This poet's works consist chiefly of light pieces after 
 the style of Anacreon ; but there are besides these, several elegiac
 
 Cowley. 599 
 
 poems, epistles and miscellanies. Cowley was a perfect master in 
 both the languages in which his poems are written. He also pos- 
 sessed a very powerful and large invention, and his variety of 
 arguments is so large, that there is scarcely any one particular of 
 all the passions of men or works of nature which he has passed by 
 undescribed. But though Cowley's works exhibit throughout great 
 shrewdness and learning, and excite admiration ; they seldom convey 
 pleasure : and that he had little passion or depth of sentiment, may 
 be seen in his love-verses. His longest poem is an epic called 
 The Davideis, the subject of which embraces the sufferings and 
 glories of David ; but there is little in it to attract : Cowley's genius 
 was rather of the lyric than epic, and in the former he certainly 
 exerted great influence upon the style of English poetry. It is by 
 his Anacreontics however, that he is best known ; but although these 
 poems possess the irregularity of form of the Greek originals, there 
 is none of that intense fire in them, for which the works of Anacreon 
 are so distinguished. One of the best examples of these is the 
 Ode to the Gfasshopper. 
 
 " Happy insect, what can l^e, 
 In happiness, conipav'd to thee ? 
 Fed with nourishment divine, 
 The dewy morning's gentle wine I 
 Nature waits upon thee still, 
 And thy verdant cup docs fill, 
 "I'is nil'd, wherever thou dost tread. 
 Nature's self's thy Ganymede. 
 Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, 
 IIa])pier than the happiest king! 
 All the fields, which thou dost see ; 
 All the plants belong to thee, 
 All that summer hours produce, 
 Fertile made with early juice. 
 Man for thee does sow and plough 
 Farmer he, and landlord thou I 
 Thou dost innocently Joy, 
 N<r does thy luxury destroy ; 
 The shepherd c;ladly heareth thee. 
 More harmoniiius than he. 
 Thee Cdunlry hinds willi [gladness hear, 
 I'ldpliet of the ripened year ! 
 'J'hee I'll' elms loves, and does insjjire ; 
 rinebus is himself thy fire.
 
 600 Minor Poets of the Commomvealth Period. 
 
 To thee, of all things upon earth, 
 
 Life is no longer than thy mirth. 
 
 Happy insect happy thou 
 
 Doth neither age nor winter know. 
 
 But, wlien thou'st drunk, and danc'd and sung 
 
 Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, 
 
 (Voluptuous, and wise, with all 
 
 Epicurean animal !) 
 
 Sated with thy summer feast, 
 
 Thou retir'st to endless rest." 
 
 Brome. This writer's works were chiefly political satires, writ- 
 ten during the civil wars, and there are many passages of singular 
 merit amongst them. The following passage from the poem On 
 the loss of a Garrison, may be taken as an illustration. 
 
 "In vain are bulwarks, and the strongest hold, 
 
 If the beseigers' bullets are of gold, 
 
 My soul, be not dejected : wouldst thou be 
 
 From present trouble or from danger free ? 
 
 Trust not in rampires, nor the strength of walls, 
 
 The town that stands to day, to-morrow falls ; 
 
 Trast not in soldiers, though they seem so stout, 
 
 Where sin's within, vain is defence without ; 
 
 Trust not in wealth, for in this lawless time, 
 
 Where prey is penalty, there wealth is crime ; 
 
 Trust not in strength or courage, we all see 
 
 The weak'st oftimes do gain the victor}- ; 
 
 Trust not in honour ; honour's but a blast, 
 
 Quickly begun, and but a while doth last. 
 
 They that to day to thee ' Hosanna' crj'. 
 
 To morrow change their note for 'Crucify.' 
 
 Trust not in friends, for friends will soon deceive thee ; 
 
 They are in nothing sure, but sure to leave thee. 
 
 Trust not in wit : who run from place to place, 
 
 Changing religion as chance does her face, 
 
 In spite of cunning, and their strength of brain, 
 
 They're often catch'd, and all their plots are vain. 
 
 Trust not in councils : potentates, or kings 
 
 All are but frail and transitory things. 
 
 Since neither soldiers, castles, wealth, or wit, 
 
 Can kee]3 off harm from thee, or thee from it ; 
 
 Since neither strength nor honour, friends nor lords, 
 
 Nor princes, peace or happiness affords, 
 
 Trust thou in God, ply Him with prayers still. 
 Be sure of help ; for He both can, and will." 
 
 Marvell. Andrew Marvel!, a writer contemporary with Mil- 
 ton, attracted considerable notice at the time he wrote. Many 
 passages of exquisite beauty may be selected from his works. His
 
 Philips. 601 
 
 song of The Emigrants to Bermuda, and his Thoughts in a Garden 
 
 are full of sweet and pleasant fancies, but one of the most beautiful 
 
 poems is the Lamentation of the Nymph on the death of a Fawn^ 
 
 which may be seen by the following fine description. 
 
 "With sweetest milk, and sugar, first 
 I it at mine own fingers nurs'd ; 
 And as it grew so every day 
 It wax'd more white and sweet than they. 
 It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 
 I bliish'd to see its foot more soft, 
 And white, shall I say ? than my hand 
 Than any lady's of the land ! 
 
 It was a wondrous thing how fleet 
 'Twas on those little silver feet. 
 With what a pretty skipping grace 
 It oft would challenge me the race ; 
 And when't had left me far away, 
 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; 
 For it was niml^Ier much than hinds, 
 And trod as if on the four winds. 
 
 I have a garden of my own, 
 
 But so with roses overgrown, 
 
 And lilies that you would it guess 
 
 To be a little wilderness ; 
 
 And all the spring time of the year 
 
 It loved only to be there. 
 
 Among the beds of lilies I 
 
 Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 
 
 Yet could not, till itself would rise. 
 
 Find it altliough before mine eyes ; 
 
 For in the flaxen lilies, shade, 
 
 It like a bank of lilies laid. 
 
 Upon the roses it would feed. 
 
 Until its lips ev'n seem'd to l)leed ; 
 
 And tlien to me 't 'twould boldly trip, 
 
 And print those roses on my lip. 
 
 Ijut all its chief dcliglit was still 
 
 On roses thus itself to fill ; 
 
 And its jnu-c virgin liiis to fold 
 
 In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 
 
 Had it livM long, it would have been 
 
 Lilies without roses within." 
 
 Philips. Airs. Katherinc Philips was very popular at this date 
 
 as a poetical writer. Her style is considerably in advance of the 
 
 writers of her time. Ilcr works were written under the assumed 
 
 name of Orinda. The following little poem, Against Pleasure, 
 
 has been selected as an illustration of her works.
 
 602 Minor Poets of the Commonwealth Period. 
 
 "There's no such thing as pleasure here, 
 
 'Tis all a perfect cheat, 
 Which does Ijut shine and disappear. 
 
 Whose charm is but deceit : 
 The empty bribe of yielding souls, 
 Which first betrays, and then controls. 
 
 'Tis true, it looks at distance fair ; 
 
 But if we do approach. 
 The fruit of Sodom will impair, 
 
 And perish at a touch: 
 In being than in fancy less. 
 And we expect more than possess. 
 
 For by our Pleasures we are cloy'd. 
 
 And so desire is done ; 
 Or else, like rivers, they make wide 
 
 The channel where they run : 
 And either way true bliss destroys. 
 Making us narrow, or our joys, 
 
 We covet Pleasure easily. 
 
 But it not so possess ; 
 For many things must make it be. 
 
 But one may make it less : 
 Nay, were our state as we could choose it, 
 'Twould be consumed by fear to lose it. 
 
 What art thou then, thou winged air. 
 
 More weak and swift than fame ? 
 Whose next successor is despair, 
 
 And its attendant shame. 
 Th' experience -prince then reason had, 
 Who said of Pleasure, 'It is mad.' " 
 
 Roscommon. The versification of this poet is smooth and ele- 
 gant, and his poems exhibit a refined taste, and correct judgment, 
 but there is nothing vigorous or great in them. He is best known 
 by his Essay on T7 a7tslated Verse, and his translation from 
 Horace's y^r/ of Poetry. The following passage from the former 
 poem will afford a good specimen of his writing. 
 
 "I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, 
 Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen ; 
 Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, 
 And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead ! 
 But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampcr'd heirs, 
 Who to your country owe your swords and cares, 
 Let no \ain hope your easy mind seduce. 
 For rich ill poets are without excuse, 
 'Tis very dangerous, tampering with the Muse, 
 The prolil's small, and you have much to lose ;
 
 Dorset. Ken, 603 
 
 For though true wit adorns your birth or place, 
 
 Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race. 
 
 No poet any passion can excite, 
 
 But what they feel transport them when they write." 
 
 Dorset. The well-known nautical ballad To all yon ladies noiu 
 
 on land, is the chief memorial of this poet. Of his minor pieces 
 
 the two following verses may be read as a good example. 
 
 "Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, 
 United, cast too fierce a light, 
 Which blazes high, but quickly dies. 
 Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. 
 
 Love is a calmer, gentle joy. 
 
 Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace ; 
 Her Cupid is a blackguard boy, 
 
 That runs his link full in your face." 
 
 Ken. The poems of Thomas Ken are very numerous, and of 
 varied merit, though he is best known by the Morning, Evening, 
 and Midnight Hymns, his chief work. A specimen of his poetry 
 is seen in the following beautiful lines, Edmund and Hilda. 
 
 "As two embracing palms, whose roots conjoin, 
 Whose boughs to a perpetual kiss incline ; 
 Their shady locks into each other wreath. 
 Their mutual sweets into each other breathe ; 
 Their morning dew into each other drop, 
 Both feel the wound, if you should either crop ; 
 Their odorous flowers at the same season blow, 
 Both twine the more, the more their branches grow; 
 Both influenced are, and warm'd by the same ray. 
 Both by a separation soon decay : 
 Edmund and Hilda thus soft [lassiims vie, 
 Together sjiring, live, flower, and wish to die ; 
 To die, for both their parting hour fore-view'd. 
 And to God's gracious will their loves subdued. 
 
 * )< * -x- )( 
 
 Hilda, while Edmund toil'd in state-affairs, 
 Eased him of all his economic cares. 
 In all that bounded was within her sphere. 
 Her wisdom shincd, in her whole conduct, clear ; 
 No vain expense she on horsell' beslow'd, 
 A spirit frugal, and yet generous sliow'd ; 
 She of (lod's blessinj^s could no waste endure. 
 But in rewards was liounliful and tiure ; 
 The poor had an alloted liberal share. 
 In all that she with decency could spare ; 
 Her speech was uncensorious and restrain'd,
 
 604 Minor Poets of the Commonwealth Period. 
 
 All that she spake a pleased attention gain'd ; 
 In her discourse a gleam of virtue shined, 
 Impressing virtuous tinctures on the mind." 
 
 Sedley. The principal work of Sir Charles Sedley, is a comedy 
 The Mulberry Garden, which sparkles with genuine wit, and 
 contains several excellent songs. In his lyrics, there is a tender- 
 ness which distinguishes him from the other court- writers of his 
 time, and which prove, that he possessed the airiness and ingenuity 
 which are the principal requisites of lyric poetry. The following 
 will illustrate at once his power of lyrical verse, of which poem the 
 Second stanza is delightful : 
 
 " Phillis, men say that all my vows 
 Are to thy fortune paid ; 
 Alas, my heart he little knows 
 Who thinks my love a trade. 
 
 Were I, of all these woods, the lord, 
 
 One berry from thy hand 
 More real pleasure would afford, 
 
 Than all my large command. 
 
 My humble love has learnt to live, 
 
 On what the nicest maid, 
 Without a conscious blush, may give 
 
 Beneath the myrtle-shade," 
 
 Garth. Samuel Garth was the writer of a mock-heroic compo- 
 sition, entitled the Dispensary, and several other smaller pieces. 
 The Dispensary relates to a dispute in the College of Physicians, 
 concerning the commencement of a charitable institution, in which 
 Garth, strongly advocated the cause of benevolence. It is well 
 written, and contains many remarkable passages of wit. As an 
 example, the following lines are selected from the passage in which 
 Hygeia'^ conducts her charge to view the wonders of the earth. 
 
 "Th ' ascent thus conqucr'd, now they tower on high, 
 And taste th' indulgence of a milder sky. 
 Loose breezes on their airy pinions play, 
 Soft infant blossoms their chaste odours pay, 
 And roses blush their fragrant lives away. 
 Cool streams through flowery meadows gently glide ; 
 And, as they pass, their painted l^anks they chide 
 These blissful plains no blights nor mildews fear, 
 The flowers ne'er fade, and shrubs are myrtles here. 
 The morn awakes the tulip from her bed ; 
 
 Health.
 
 Rochester, Sheffield. 605 
 
 Ere noon in painted pride she decks her head, 
 Rob'd in rich dye she triumphs on the green, 
 And every flower does homage to the queen. 
 So, when bright Venus rises from the flood, 
 Around in throngs the wondering Nereids crowd ; 
 Tlie Tritons gaze, and tune each vocal shell. 
 And every grace unsung, the waves conceal." 
 
 Rochester. This writer is more celebrated for his profligacy 
 
 and witj than for his poetry. Although he displayed considerable 
 
 talent in writing, he never produced any one poem of distinguished 
 
 merit. The fugitive songs and lyrics of this writer which are 
 
 known, however, prove how great his talents for poetry were. 
 
 The following lyric entitled Love mid Life, is selected as an example. 
 
 "All my past life is mine no more, 
 
 The flying hours are gone : 
 Like transitory dreams given o'er, 
 Whose images are kept in store 
 
 By memoiy alone. 
 
 The time that is to come is not : 
 
 How can it then be mine? 
 The present moment's all my lot ; 
 And tliat, as fast as it is got, 
 
 Phillis is only thine. 
 
 Then talk not of inconstancy, 
 
 False hearts, and lirokcn vows ; 
 If I, l)y miracle, can be 
 This live-long minute true to thee, 
 
 'Tis all that heaven allows." 
 
 Sheffield. Sheffield is best known by his Essay on Poetry 
 written in the heroic couplet. Of his lesser poems there are few 
 that bear the true stamp of genius, although there are many that 
 arc smart and sparkling. lie was the writer of two tragedies, 
 Julius Ccrsar, and the Death of Brutus, which however possess 
 little merit. His songs, which are all written upon common topics, 
 are chiefly of an inferior character. The following is one of the 
 
 best. 
 
 " Since in vain ciur jiarsons teach, 
 Hear, fiir once a pwcl preach. 
 \'ice has K)st its ve-ry name, 
 Skill and cozcnaLje thought the same; 
 Only playing well the game. 
 Foul contrivances wc see 
 Calfd but ingenuity :
 
 606 Minor Poets of the Conimonwealth Period. 
 
 Ample fortunes often made 
 Out of frauds in every trade, 
 Which an awkward child afford 
 Enough to wed the greatest lord. 
 The miser starves to raise a son, 
 But, if once the fool is gone. 
 Years of thrift scarce serve a day, 
 Rake-hell squanders all away. 
 Husbands seeking for a place. 
 
 Or toiling for their pay ; 
 While the wives undo their race 
 
 By petticoats and play ; 
 Breeding boys to drink and dice, 
 Cari7ing girls to comedies. 
 Where mamma's intrigues are shown. 
 Which ere long will be their own. 
 Having first at sermon slept, 
 Tedious day is weekly kept 
 By worse hypocrites than men. 
 Till Monday comes to cheat again. 
 Ev'n among the noblest bom. 
 
 Moral virtue is a scorn ; 
 
 Gratitude, but rare at best, 
 
 And fidelity a jest." 
 
 Blackmore. Sir Richard Blackmore was the writer of several 
 
 epic poems, of which the C?-eat!07i \?, iho. best known. Addison 
 
 says, that "it deserves to be looked upon as one of the most useful 
 
 and noble productions in our English verse," and Johnson says, 
 
 " had Blackmore written nothing else, it would have transmitted 
 
 him to posterity among the first favourites of the English Muse." 
 
 The following is a short extract from this poem. 
 
 "Since Thou didst all the spacious worlds display, 
 Homage to Thee let all obedient pay. 
 Let glittering stars, that dance their destin'd ring 
 Sublime in sky, with vocal planets sing 
 Confederate praise to Thee, O Great Creator King 
 Let the thin districts of the waving air. 
 Conveyancers of sound. Thy skill declare. 
 Let winds, the breathing creatures of the skies, 
 Call in each vigorous gale, that roving flies 
 By land or sea; then one loud triumph raise. 
 And all their Ijlasts employ in songs of praise. 
 
 While painted herald-birds Thy deeds proclaim. 
 And on their spreading wings convey Thy fame ; 
 Let eagles, which in heaven's blue concave soar, 
 Scornful of earth, superior seats explore,
 
 Norris. 607 
 
 And rise with breasts erect against the sun, 
 Be ministers to bear thy briglit renown, 
 And carry ardent praises to thy throne. 
 
 Ye fish, assume a voice ; with praises fill 
 The hollow rock, and loud reactive hill. 
 Let lions with their roar their t]ianl<s express, 
 With acclamations shake the wilderness. 
 Let thunder clouds, that float from pole to pole, 
 With salvos loud salute Thee as they roll. 
 Ye monsters of the sea, ye noisy waves, 
 Strike with applause the repercussive caves. 
 Let hail and rain, let meteors form'd of fire. 
 And lambent flames, in this blest work conspire. 
 Let the high cedar and tlie mountain pine 
 Lowly to thee, Great King, their heads incline. 
 Let every spicy odoriferous tree 
 Presents its incense and its balm to Thee." 
 
 Norris. John Norris was also a miscellaneous writer of this 
 
 period. His works consist of Poems, Essays, Letters, &c. Like 
 
 many of the less-noticcd writers of that age, his works abound in 
 
 many and rare beauties. His lines on Posiliumous Fame, are fit 
 
 to vie with any poetry of the kind at that date. 
 
 "As for jiroud glory which couics after fate, 
 
 All that can then of me be said, 
 I value least of all, it comes too late, 
 'Tis like th' embalming of senseless dead : 
 Others with pleasure, what me labour cost 
 May read, and praise ; but to me all is lost ; 
 
 Just as the sun no joy does find 
 
 In that his light, which cheers mankind. 
 
 Or should I after fate has closed my eyes, 
 
 Should I my living glories know, 
 My wiser, improved soul will then despise 
 All that [loor mortals say or liiink lielow : 
 Even they who of men's ignorance Ijefore 
 Complain'd, because few did their works adore, 
 
 Will then the selfsame censure raise, 
 
 Not from their silence, liut their praise. 
 
 Death and destruction shall ere hjng defxce 
 
 The world, the work of hands divine. 
 What ])illars then, or monunienls ofhrass 
 Shall from the general ruin rescue mine? 
 AH then shall eipiid l)e ; 1 care not then 
 To l)e a while the talk and bi>a>l of men ; 
 
 Tliis only grant, that I may be 
 
 Praised by the angJs, l.nr.l, ;,nd ilioe."
 
 608 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 MINOR POETS OF THE GEORGIAN PERIOD. 
 
 Lansdowne. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, is a writer 
 
 after the style of Waller, who no doubt he imitated. Johnson says, 
 
 "his verses are without merit." The best known of his poems, are 
 
 his verses To Myra, from which the two following are quoted. 
 
 " Foolish Love, begone, said T, 
 Vain are thy attempts on me ; 
 Thy soft allurements I defy, 
 Women, those fair dissemblers, fly, 
 My heart was never made for thee. 
 
 Love heard ; and straight prepar'd a dart ; 
 
 Myra, revenge my cause, said he : 
 Too sure 'twas shot, I feel the smart. 
 It rends my brain, and tears my heart ; 
 
 O Love ! my cgnqu'ror, pity me." 
 
 "Warn'd, and made wise by other's flame, 
 I fled from whence such mischiefs came. 
 Shunning the sex, that kills at sight, 
 I sought my safety in my flight. 
 
 But, ah ! in vain from fate I fly, 
 For first, or last, as all must die ; 
 So 'tis as much decreed above, 
 That first, or last, we all must love. 
 
 My heart which stood so long the shock 
 Of winds and waves, like some firm rock, 
 By one bright spark from Myra thrown. 
 Is into flame, like powder, blown." 
 
 POMFRET. The chief work by which this writer is remembered, 
 is the poem of The Choice, in which is given a true and almost 
 perfect sketch of rural life. The images and ideas employed are 
 such as immediately touch the heart and fancy, and it is this that 
 renders this poem at all times interesting. The following pas- 
 sage is selected from this poem. 
 
 "If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, 
 Tliat I might choose my method how to live, 
 And all those hours propitious fate should lend. 
 In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, 
 Near some fair town I'd have a private scat, 
 Built uniform, not little, nor too great : 
 Better, if on a rising ground it stood ;
 
 Yalden, 609 
 
 On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. 
 
 It should within no other things contain, 
 
 But what are useful, necessary, plain : 
 
 Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure 
 
 The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. 
 
 A jittle garden, grateful to the eye ; 
 
 Where a cool rivulet runs murmuring by : 
 
 On those delicious banks a stately row 
 
 Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow. 
 
 At th' end of which a silent study plac d 
 
 Should be with all the noblest authors grac'd. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I'd have a clear and competent estate. 
 That I might live genteelly, Init not great : 
 As much as I could moderately spend, 
 A little more sometimes t' oblige a friend. 
 Nor should the sons of poverty repine 
 Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine ; 
 And all that objects of true pity were, 
 Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare : 
 For that our Maker has too largely given, 
 Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven, 
 
 *)<)( * 
 
 And as I near approach'd the verge of life, 
 Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) 
 Should take upon him all my worldly care, 
 Whilst I did for a better state prepare. 
 Then I'd not be with any trouble vex'd, 
 Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd ; 
 ]^ut, by a silent and a peaceful death. 
 Without a sigh resign my aged breath. 
 And when committed to the dust, I'd have 
 Few tears, but friendly, drojit into my grave; 
 'i'hen would my exit so ]iropilious be. 
 All men would wish to live and die like me. ' 
 
 Yalden. Yalden's verses are of less merit than those of the wri- 
 ters of that period, but still there may be selected some of tolerable 
 beauty, of one of which the following Hynui to the Moinin<^ may 
 be mentioned. Johnson, wlio declares it to be his best performance 
 says of it, that, "it is imagined with great vigour, and expressed 
 with great propriety." 
 
 "Parent of Day ! wlio^e beauteous lieams of light 
 Spring from the darksumc woml) of Night, 
 Anfl 'niiibt their native horrors show. 
 Like gems adorning of the negro's brow : 
 Not lleav'n's fair bow can equa'l thee.
 
 610 Minor Poets of the Georgian Tericd. 
 
 In all its gaudy drapery ; 
 Thou first essay of light, and pledge of day ! 
 That usher'st in the sun, and still prepar at its way. 
 
 Rival of shade, eternal spring of light ! 
 
 Thou art the genuine source of it : 
 
 From thy bright unexhausted womb, 
 The beauteous rays of days and seasons come. 
 
 Thy beauty ages cannot wrong, 
 
 But, spite of time, tliou'rt ever young: 
 Thou art rdone Heav'n's modest virgin light, 
 Whose face a veil of blushes hides from human sight. 
 
 * * * * -x- 
 
 But yet thy fading glories soon decay. 
 
 Thine's but a momentary stay ; 
 
 Too soon thou'rt ravish'd from our sight, 
 Borne down the stream of day, and overwhelm'd with light. 
 
 Thy beams to their own ruin haste. 
 
 They're fram'd too exquisite to last : 
 Thine is a glorious, but a short-liv'd state, 
 Pity so fair a birth should yield so soon to fate. 
 
 Before th' Almighty Artist fram'd the sky. 
 
 Or gave the earth its harmony, 
 
 His first command was for thy light ; 
 He viewed the lovely birth, and blessed it : 
 
 In purple swaddling-bands it struggling lay. 
 
 Not yet matm-ely bright for day : 
 Old Chaos then a cheerful smile put on, 
 And, from thy beauteous form, did first presage its own. 
 
 'Let there be light !' the great Creator said. 
 
 His word the active child obey'd : 
 
 Night did her teeming womb disclose ; 
 And then the blushing morn, its brightest offspring rose. 
 
 Awhile the Almighty wondering view'd, 
 
 And then himself pronounced it good : 
 'With night, (said he) divide th' imperial sway ; 
 Thou my first labour art, and thou shalt bless the day.' " 
 
 CONGREVE. William Congreve is best known as a comic drama- 
 istjbutheis also the writer of several tragedies, and miscellaneous 
 poems. His finest work is Love for Love, which is one of the 
 most perfect comedies in the whole range of literature. There is 
 less merit in his miscellaneous poems than in his dramatic work. 
 The following Ode In Imitation of Horace, though only a para- 
 phase of the original, may be read as an interesting example of 
 the smaller poems of this writer.
 
 Hmve 611 
 
 "Bless me, tis cold ! how chill the air ! 
 How naked does the world appear ! 
 But see (big with the offspring of the north) 
 The teeming clouds bring forth : 
 
 A sliower of soft and fleecy rain 
 Falls, to ncw-clothe the earth again. 
 
 Behold the mountain tops around, 
 
 As if with fur of ermines crown'd ; 
 And lo ! how by degrees 
 The universal mantle hides the trees 
 
 In hoary flakes, which downward fly, 
 As if it were the autumn of the sky : 
 Trembling, the groves sustain their weight, and bow 
 
 Like aged limbs, which feebly go 
 Beneath a venerable head of snow. 
 
 Diffusive cold does the whole earth invade. 
 Like a disease, througli all its veins 'tis spread. 
 And each late living stream is numb'd and dead. 
 Lei's melt the frozen hours, make warm tlic air ; 
 Let cheerful (ires Sol's feeble hcams rejiair ; 
 
 Fill the large I)owl with sparkling wine ; 
 
 Let's drinl'; till our own faces shine, 
 'I'ill we like suns aj>pear, 
 
 To light and warm the hemisphere." 
 
 Rowe. Nicholas Rowe is most famous for his tragic and drama- 
 tic poetry. The principal of these productions, are 'Jane Shore^ 
 Tlie Fair PcrJteiii^ and Lady Jane Grey. The qualities of his 
 genius were rather tenderness and delicacy, than pathos and 
 strength. There is much merit and beauty lobe found in many of 
 his minor poems also. Perhaps his most popular poem is tlie beau- 
 tiful ballad, called Colin s Complaint, which is almost equal to 
 Shenstone's Pastoral Ballad. 
 
 "Despairing beside a clear stream, 
 
 A she])hcr(l ft)rsaken was laid ; 
 And while a false nymph was his theme, 
 
 A willdW sup)inited his head. 
 The wind that blew over the plain. 
 
 To his sighs with a sigh tliil reply ; 
 And the bro(il<, in return to his ])ain, 
 
 Kan niournUiJly muiinuring by. 
 
 Alas, silly swain that I was! 
 
 Thus .sadly complaining, he cry'd, 
 When first I beheld that fair face, 
 
 'Twore better by far I had died. 
 She talk'd, and I i)les5\l the dear tongue ;
 
 612 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too gieat, 
 listen'd. arcl crj'd, when she sung, 
 Was niglitingale ever so sweet? 
 
 How foolish was I to believe 
 
 She coukl doat on so lowly a clown. 
 Or that her fond heart would not grieve, 
 
 To forsake the fine folk of the town. 
 To think that a beauty so gay, 
 
 So kind and so constant would prove ; 
 Or go clad like our maidens in grey, 
 
 Or live in a cottage on love ? 
 
 And you, my companions so dear, 
 
 Who sorrow to see me betray'd, 
 Whatever I suffer, forbear, 
 
 Forbear to accuse the false maid. 
 Though through the wide world I should range, 
 
 'Tis in vain for my fortune to fly ; 
 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 
 
 'Tis mine to be constant and die. 
 
 If while my hard fate I sustain, 
 
 In her breast any pity is found, 
 Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, 
 
 And see me laid low in the ground. 
 The last humble boon that I crave 
 
 Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; 
 And when she looks down on my grave. 
 
 Let her own that her shepherd was true. 
 
 Then to her new love let her go, 
 
 And deck her in golden array, 
 Be finest at every fine show, 
 
 And frolic it all the long day ; 
 While Colin, forgotten and gone. 
 
 No more shall be talk'd of, or seen. 
 Unless when beneath the pale moon, 
 
 His ghost shall glide over the green." 
 
 Watts. Isaac Watts was the writer of /'.ra/wj-, //)';//;;i', and 
 
 I.yn'c Poems, which are too well known to require comment. 
 
 Amongst the latter, many beautiful moral pieces are to be found : 
 
 the folloving on Tri/e Ricaes, being a good specimen. 
 
 "I am not concern'd to know 
 What to-morrow fate will do : 
 ' Tis enough tliat I can say, 
 I've posscss'd myself to day ; 
 Then if haply midnight-death 
 Seize my tlesh and stop my breath, 
 Yet to-morrcjw I shall be 
 Ileir to tlie Ijcsl part of me.
 
 rUtlips. 613 
 
 Glittering stones, and golden things, 
 Wealth and honours that have wings, 
 Ever fluttering to be gone, 
 I could never call my own : 
 Riches that the world bestows. 
 She can take, and I can lose ; 
 Lut the treasures that are mine 
 Lie afar beyond her line. 
 When I view my spacious soul. 
 And survey myself awhole. 
 And enjoy myself alone, 
 I'm a kingdom of my own." 
 
 Pi!ii.!!.~. This poet is the author of a half-descriptive^ half- 
 didactic poem on the manufacture of Cider, written after the Geor- 
 gics of Virgil, and from which passages of much merit could be 
 selected. Philips, however, is best known by his poem, the 
 Splendid S/tiIItf!<^, an agreeable parody upon the style of Milton : 
 it may be considered the principal support of Philips' popularity. 
 The following passage from Cider will afford a specimen of the 
 style of this poem, and an example of the writings of this poet. 
 
 "Autumn to the fruits 
 Earth's various lap produces, vigour gi\es 
 Equal itinerating milky grain, 
 ]5erries, and sky-dy'd plums, and what in coat, 
 Rough, or soft rind, or beardetl husk, or shell ; 
 Fat olives, and I'istacio's fragrant nut, 
 And the pine's tastful apple : Autumns paint 
 Ausonian hills with grapes, whilst English plains 
 lilusli with i>oniaceiius harvests, breathing sweets. 
 O let me now, when the kind early dew 
 Unlocks ill' embosomed odours, walk among 
 The well-rang'd files of trees, whose fuU-ag'd store 
 Diffuse ambrosial streams, than myrrh, or nard 
 More grateful, or jierfumiug flow'ry bean ! 
 .Soft wliisp'ring Airs, antl the larks matin song 
 Then woo to musing, and be calm the mind 
 I'erplexM wiili irksome thouglits. Tiirice happy time, 
 liesl ]iorlion of the various year, in wliich 
 Nature rejoicclh, smiling on her works 
 Lovely, to full peifection wrought I but ah. 
 Short are our jo_\s, and neii^hl/ring griefs disturb 
 Our i)!easant hours. Inclement winter dwells 
 Contiguous ; forlhwilh fiosly blasts deface 
 l"lie blithsonic year : trees ol their shrivel'd fruits 
 Are widow'd, dreary storms o'er all prevail,"
 
 614 Mhtor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Hughes. John Hughes was the writer of a number of miscel- 
 laneous poems ; a tragedy entitled The Siege of Damascus ; and 
 several translations from the French : he also published an edi- 
 tion of the works of Spenser. One of the best of his miscellaneous 
 poems is the Ode to the Creator of the World. It is full of the 
 most striking descriptions, and elevated thoughts, and abounds 
 with magnificent imagery. Johnson classes it as one ot the finest 
 odes in our language. The following stanzas are selected from 
 this poem as an example. 
 
 "He spoke the great command ; and light, 
 
 Heaven's eldest born and fairest child, 
 Flash'd in the lowering face of ancient night, 
 And, pleas'd with its own birth, serenely smil'd. 
 
 The sons of morning, on the wing. 
 
 Hovering in choirs, his praises sung, 
 
 ^Vhen from th' unbounded vacuous space 
 
 A beauteous rising world they saw, 
 When nature shew'd her yet unfinish'd face, 
 
 And motion took the established law 
 
 To roll the various globes on high ; 
 
 When time was taught his infant wings to try, 
 And from the barrier sprung to his appointed race. 
 
 Supreme, Almighty ; still the same ! 
 
 'Tis he, the great inspiring mind. 
 That animates and moves this universal frame, 
 Present at once in all, and by no place confined. 
 
 Not heaven itself can bound his sway ; 
 Beyond th' untravell'd limits of the sky, 
 
 Invisible to mortal eye 
 
 He dwells in uncreated day. 
 Without beginning, without end ; 'tis he 
 That fills th' unmeasur'd growing orb of vast immensity." 
 
 ParNELL.- This poet is known chiefly by his moral tale of the 
 
 Herfnit. Although somewhat feeble, it is gracefully and elegantly 
 
 written, a parable versified from a striking story, originally derived 
 
 from the Gcsta Romanorum. The poem opens with the following 
 
 admirable description of the Hermit. 
 
 "Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
 From youth to age a rev'rend Hermit grew ; 
 The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
 His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
 Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days, 
 Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
 
 Ramsay. 615 
 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
 Seem'd lieav'n itself, till one suggestion rose 
 That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
 This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway : 
 His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
 And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
 So, when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
 Calm Nature's image on its wat'ry breast, 
 Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
 And skies beneath with answering colours glow : 
 I?ut. if a stone the gentle sea divide. 
 Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side, 
 And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun, 
 I5anks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run." 
 
 Ramsay. Besides several pieces of considerable humour, this 
 poet's works include the celebrated pastoral drama of The Gentle 
 Shepherd, which is the principal prop of his reputation. It depicts 
 the rustics of Scotland in their actual characters, and the language 
 of their every-day life, and yet without the slightest taint of vulgarity, 
 and it contains some fine descriptive passages, and many light but 
 firm delineations of character. As a pastoral poem, it is one of the 
 most perfect specimensin the English language, and is withoutapar- 
 allel for tenderness of sentiment, aiTecting incident and justness 
 of painting. It consists of a series of dialogues in verse, descrip- 
 tive of the rural life and scenery of Scotland, and interwoven 
 into a simple but interesting love-story. The Doric dialect in 
 which it is written adds to its other graces, and set them off to still 
 greater effect, giving it a charm which no other pastoral poem will 
 ever attain. This poem will no doubt be read and admired, so long 
 as the lanjjUage in which it is written shall continue to be understood. 
 The following extract which is remarkable for all that attractive 
 simplicity and truth for which this poem is distinguished, will afford 
 an example. 
 
 TATIK. 
 
 "Were your Ijicn rooms as thinly stock'd as mine, 
 Less ye wad lo.>e. ami less ye wad repine. 
 He that has just cnougli can soundly sleep; 
 The (I'ercome only fashes fouk to keep. 
 
 RO(;r.R. 
 May plenty flow upon thee for a cross, 
 That thou may'st thole the pangs o' mony a loss .'
 
 616 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wencli, 
 That ne'er will lout thy lowin' drouth to quench, 
 Till, bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool, 
 And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool ! 
 
 PATIE. 
 
 Sax guid fat lambs, I said them ilka clute 
 
 At the West-port, and bought a winsome flute , 
 
 O' plum-tree made, wi' iv'ry virles round 
 
 A cfainty whistle, wi' a pleasant sound ; 
 
 ril be mair canty wi't and ne'er cry dool, 
 
 Than you, wi' a' your cash, you dowie fool ! 
 
 ROGER. 
 
 Na, Patie, na ! I'm nae sic churlish beast, 
 Some other thing lies heavier at my breast ; 
 
 1 dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night. 
 That gars my flesh a' creep yet wi' the fright. 
 
 PATIE. 
 
 Now, to a friend how silly's this pretence, 
 To ane wha you and a' your secret kens ; 
 Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide 
 Your weel seen love, and dorty Jenny's pride. 
 Tak courage, Roger ;me your sorrows tell. 
 And safely think nane kens them but yoursell. 
 
 ROGER. 
 
 Indeed, now, Patie, ye hae guess'd ower true, 
 And there is naething I'll keep up frae you. 
 Me, dorty Jenny looks upon asquint. 
 To speak but till her I daur hardly mint : 
 In ilka place she jeers me air and late, 
 And gars me look bombaz'd and unco blate ; 
 But yesterday I met her yont a knowe, 
 She fled, as frae a shelly-coated cow. 
 She Baldy loes, ISaldy that drives the car, 
 But geeks at me, and says I smell o' tar. 
 
 PATIE. 
 
 But Bauldy loes not her, right weel I wat : 
 He sighs for Neps sae that may stand for that. 
 
 ROGER. 
 
 I wislr I coud'na loe her but in vain, 
 
 I still maun do't, and thole her proud disdain. 
 
 My Bawty is a cur I dearly like. 
 
 E'en while he fawn'd, she strak the puir dumb tyke : 
 
 If I had fiU'd a nook within her breast. 
 
 She wad hae shawn mair kindness to my beast. 
 
 When I begin to tune my stock and horn, 
 
 Wi' a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn. 
 
 Last night, I play'd ye never heard sic spite ! 
 
 O'er Bogie was the spring, and her delyte ;
 
 Fenton. Hill 617 
 
 Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speer'd, 
 
 'Gif she could tell what tune I play VI ?' and sneer'd. 
 
 Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care, 
 
 I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair !" 
 
 Fenton. Elijah Fenton was contemporary with Pope, whom 
 
 he assisted in his translation of the Odyssey of Homer. He has 
 
 written some poems of moderate merit, from which the following 
 
 lines on the character of Olivia^ have been selected. 
 
 " Olivia's lewd, but looks devout, 
 And scripture-proofs she throws about, 
 
 When first you try to win her ; 
 Pull your fob of guineas out ; 
 Fee Jenny first, and never doubt 
 To find the saint a sinner. 
 
 Baxter by day is her delight : 
 No chocolate must come in sight 
 
 Before two morning chapters : 
 But, lest the spleen should spoil her quite, 
 She takes a civil friend at night 
 
 To raise her holy raptures. 
 
 Thus oft we see a glow-worm gay 
 At large her fiery tail display, 
 
 Eticourag'd Ijy the dark : 
 And yet the sullen thing all day 
 Snug in the lonely thicket lay. 
 
 And hid the native spark." 
 
 Hill. Seventeen plays have been attributed to Aaron Hill, 
 
 besides other pieces of less importance. The style of his writings 
 
 is correct and cold, constructed mainly upon the French models. 
 
 Of his minor pieces the following poem of The Happy Man, 
 
 has been selected as an example. 
 
 "High o'er the winding of a cliffy shore, 
 From whose worn steep the black'ning surges roar ; 
 Freeman ! sweet lot, in quiet plenty lives : 
 Rich in the unbought weallli which Nature gives ; 
 Uiiplanted groves rise round his sheller'd seal, 
 And self-sown flowVs attract his wanii'ring feet: 
 Lengths of wild garden ins near views adorn, 
 And far-seen fields wave with domestic corn. 
 
 The gralefiil herds which his own pastures feed. 
 Pay their ask'd lives, and in due tribute bleed. 
 Here, in learn'd leisure lie relaxes life. 
 'Twixt prattling children and a smiling wife. 
 Here, on dc[)en(lanl want he sheds his care, 
 Moves amid smiles, and all he hears is pray'r.
 
 618 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 The world lies round him like a subject soil, 
 Stor'd for his service, but beneath his toil, 
 Hence in a morning walk his piercing eye 
 Skims the green ocean to the circling sky ; 
 ^nd marks at distance some returning sail, 
 Wing'd by the courtship of a fiatt'ring gale. 
 The fearless crew, concluding danger o'er, 
 With gladd'ning shouts salute the op'ning shore : 
 They think how best they may their gains employ, 
 j4nd antedate thin scenes of promis'd joy ; 
 Till a near quick-sand checks their shorten'd way, 
 And the sunk masts point thro' the rising spray. 
 Freeman starts sad ! revolves the changeful sight, 
 Where mis'ry can so soon succeed delight ; 
 Then shakes his head in pity of their fate, 
 And sweetly conscious, hugs his happier state." 
 
 TiCKELL. Thomas Tickell, a writer of Swift's time, exhibits in 
 
 his poems more tenderness, than either of his contemporaries. 
 
 His ballad oi Lucy and Colin is still popular, and exhibits in many 
 
 of its stanzas, this great tenderness of writing : it is quoted below 
 
 as an example of this poet's writing. 
 
 "Of Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair, 
 Bright Lucy was the grace ; 
 Nor e'er did Lifty's limpid stream 
 Reflect so fair a face. 
 
 Till luckless love and pining care, 
 
 Impar'd her rosy hue, 
 Her coral lip, and damask cheek, 
 
 And eyes of glossy blue. 
 
 Oh ! have you seen a lily pale, 
 
 When beating rains descend ? 
 So droop'd the slow-consuming maid ; 
 
 Her life now near its end. 
 
 By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains 
 
 Take heed, ye easy fair: 
 Of vengeance due to broken vows, 
 
 Ye perjured swains, beware. 
 
 Three times, all in the dead of night, 
 
 A bell was heard to ring ; 
 And at her window, shrieking thrice, 
 
 The raven flapp'd his wing. 
 
 Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 
 
 That solemn boding sound ; 
 And thus, in dying words, bespoke 
 
 The virgins weeping round.
 
 Gay. 619 
 
 'I hear a voice you cannot hear, 
 
 Which says, I must not stay : 
 I see a hand you cannot see. 
 
 Which beckons me away. 
 
 'By a false heart, and broken vows, 
 
 In early youth I die. 
 Am I to blame, because his bride 
 
 Is thrice as rich as I ? 
 
 'Ah Colin ! give not her thy vows ; 
 
 Vows due to me alone : 
 Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 
 
 Nor think him all thy own. 
 
 'To-morrow in the church to wed, 
 
 Impatient, both prepare ; 
 But know, fond maid, and know, false man, 
 
 That Lucy will be there. 
 
 'Then, bear my corse, ye comrades, bear, 
 
 The bridegroom blithe to meet ; 
 He in his wedding trim so gay, 
 
 I in my winding sheet?' 
 
 She spoke, she died ;^her corse was borne, 
 
 The bridegroom blithe to meet ; 
 He in his wedding-trim so gay, 
 
 She in her winding sheet. 
 
 Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts ? 
 
 How were those nuptials kept? 
 The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead, 
 
 And all the village wept. 
 
 Confusion, shame, remorse, despair. 
 
 At once his bosom swell : 
 The damps of death bedew'd his brow 
 
 He shook, he groan'd, he fell. 
 
 From the vain bride (all, bride no more !) 
 
 The varying crimson fled, 
 When, strelcli'd before her rival's corse, 
 
 She saw her husband dead. 
 
 Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, 
 
 Convey d l)y trembling swains, 
 One mould witli her. beneath one sod. 
 
 For ever now remains. ' 
 
 Gay. The most distinguished after Pope of his time, was Joseph 
 Gay. His most popular poems arc his /ui/'/c's, whicli in sprightli- 
 ness, point, and wit have never been matched. His fame rests 
 chiefly on his play of T/ie Beggar s Opera. The collection of
 
 620 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Eclogues entitled the Shepherd's Week, is an admirable specimen 
 of pastoral poetry, and the descriptions of real English rural na- 
 ture and peasant life are so agreeable, that as a poem it will always 
 be read with interest and pleasure. His other important poem is 
 the Trivia, or The art of Walking the Streets of Loiidoji. It is 
 full of an easy and quiet humour, and is interesting for the curious 
 details it gives of the street-scenery, costume, and manners of that 
 time. The following, the Shepherd a7id the Pliilosopiier, the intro- 
 duction to the Fables, is an excellent specimen of his poetry : 
 
 " Remote from cities liv'd a swain, 
 Unvex'd with all the cares of gain ; 
 His head was silver'd o'er with age, 
 And long experience made him sage ; 
 In summer's heat, and v\inter's cold, 
 He fed his flock, and penn'd the fold ; 
 His hours in cheerful labour flew, 
 Nor envy nor ambition knew : 
 His wisdom and his honest fame 
 Thro' all the country rais'd his name. 
 
 h deep philosopher (whose rules 
 Of moral life were drawn from schools) 
 The Shepherd's homely cottage sought, 
 And thus explor'd his reach of thought. 
 
 'Whence is thy learning? hath thy toil 
 
 O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ? 
 
 Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd, 
 And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ? 
 Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd, 
 And hasl thou fathom'd Tully's mind ? 
 Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown. 
 By various fates, on realms unknown, 
 Hast thou thro' many cities stray'd. 
 Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd ? ' 
 The shepherd modestly reply'd, 
 'I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; 
 Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts 
 To read mankind, their laws and arts ; 
 For man is practis'd in disguise, 
 He cheats the most discerning eyes : 
 \\'ho by that search shall wiser grow, 
 When we ourselves can never know ? 
 The little knowledge I have gain'd, 
 Was all from simple Nature drain'd ; 
 Hence my life's maxims took their rise, 
 Hence grew my settled hate to vice. 
 The daily labours of the bee
 
 Broome. 621 
 
 Awake my soul to industry : 
 Who can observe the careful ant, 
 And not provide for future want? 
 My dog (the trustiest of his kind) 
 With gratitude inflames my mind : 
 I mark his true, his faithful way, 
 And in my service copy Tray : 
 In constancy and nuptial love, 
 I learn my duty from the dove : 
 The hen, who from the chilly air, 
 With pious wing, protects her care, 
 And every fowl that flies at large, 
 Instructs me in a parents charge.'" 
 
 Broome. William Broome is remembered as having assisted 
 
 Pope in his translation of the Odyssey of Homer. He was also 
 
 the writer of miscellaneous poetry, of which some is remarkable 
 
 for originality of thought and expression. The following lines on 
 
 The Rosebud are a beautiful little example of the smaller poems 
 
 of this writer. 
 
 "Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose, 
 
 The beauties of thy leaves disclose ! 
 
 The winter's past, the tempests fly. 
 
 Soft gales breathe gently thro' the sky ; 
 
 The lark sweet warbling on the wing. 
 
 Salutes the gay return of Spring : 
 
 The silver dews, the vernal showers, 
 
 Call forth a bloomy waste of flowers ; 
 
 The joyous fields, the shady woods. 
 
 Are cloth'd with green, or swell'd with buds : 
 
 Then haste thy beauties to disclose, 
 
 Queen of fragrance, lovely rose 1 
 
 * )( * * 
 
 And thou, fair nympli, thyself survey 
 In this sweet olTsjirini^ of a day ; 
 That miracle of lace must fail ! 
 Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail : 
 Swift as the short-liv'd flower they fly, 
 At morn they bloom, at evening die : 
 
 Tho' sickness yet a while forbears. 
 Yet time destroys what sickness spares. 
 Is'ow Helen lives alone in fame. 
 And Cleoi)atra"s but a name. 
 Time must indent that heavenly brow, 
 Ami thou must be, what they are now. 
 
 This moral to the fair ilisclose, 
 Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose."
 
 622 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Byrom. John Byrom is chiefly remembered by a pastoral poem 
 which appeared in the "Spectator," and entitled My time, O ye 
 Muses was happily spent. He was the writer also of a number of 
 other smaller poems of an amusing character. Montgomery says, 
 "Byrom was perhaps without exception the most expert versifier in 
 the English language ; no subject, not even verbal criticism, being 
 too intractable to be run into familiar metre by him." One of his 
 best poems exhibiting this freedom of writing is the Essay on En- 
 tfiusiasvt, a portion of which is selected as an example. 
 
 " What is enthusiasm? What can it be, 
 But thought enkindled to an high degree? 
 That may, whatever be its ruling turn, 
 Right, or not right, with equal ardour burn. 
 It must be therefore various in its kind, 
 As objects vary, that engage the mind : 
 When to reUgion we confine the word, 
 What use of language can be more absurd? 
 'Tis just as true, that many words beside. 
 As love, or zeal, are only thus applied : 
 To every kind of life they all belong ; 
 Men may be eager, tho' their views be wrong : 
 And hence the reason, why the greatest foes 
 To true religious earnestness are those 
 Who fire their wits upon a difierent theme, 
 Deep in some false enthusiastic scheme. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It matters not, whatever be the state 
 That full-bent will and strong desires create ; 
 Where'er they fall, where'er they love to dwell. 
 They kindle there their lieaven, or their hell ; 
 The chosen scene surrounds them as their own, 
 All else is dead, insipid, or unknown, 
 However poor and empty be the sphere, 
 'Tis all, if inclination centre there : 
 Its own enthusiasts each system knows, 
 Down to laced fops, and powder'd sprinkled beaus." 
 
 Addison. The finest production of this poet, is unquestionably 
 the tragedy of Cato, although it is neither so interesting nor so 
 pleasing as his opera of 7v''j'rtW(5';/('/. He is also the author of se- 
 veral miscellaneous poems, and //>'w;ii-, the latter of which are well- 
 known. Perhaps the best of his shorter pieces are his Verses to 
 K?ieller, speaking of which Johnson says, "there is scarcely any 
 instance in which mythology has been appHed with more delicacy
 
 Somerville. 623 
 
 and dexterity." The following lines from this poem may be read as 
 
 illustrative of this : 
 
 "Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought, 
 From reign to reign in ermine wrought, 
 And, in the robes of state array'd, 
 The kings of half an age display'd. 
 
 Here swarthy Charles appears, and there 
 His brother with dejected air : 
 Triumphant Nassau here we find, 
 And vsitli him bright Maria join'd ; 
 There Anna, great as when she sent 
 Her armies through the continent. 
 Ere yet her Hero was disgrac'd : 
 O may fam'd Brunswick be the last, 
 (Though heaven should with my wish agree. 
 And long preserve thy art in thee) 
 The last, the iiajipiest British king, 
 Wiioni thou shalt paint, or I shall sing ! 
 
 Wise Phidias thus, iiis skill to prove. 
 Through many a god advanc'd to Jove, 
 And taught the polish"d rocks to shine 
 With airs and lineaments divine ; 
 Till Greece, amaz'd, and half-afraid, 
 Th' assembled deities .survey'd. 
 
 Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair, 
 And lov'd the spreading oak, was there ; 
 Old Saturn too with up-cast eyes 
 Beheld his abdicated skies; 
 And mighty Mars, for war renov/n'd, 
 In adamantine armour frovvn'd ; 
 By him the childless goddess rose, 
 Minerva, studious to comi)ose 
 Her twisted threads ; the web she strung, 
 And o"er a loom of marble hung : 
 Thetis; the troubled ocean's queen, 
 Match'd with a mortal, next was seen. 
 Reclining on a funeral urn. 
 Her short liv'd darling son to mourn. 
 The last was he, whose thunder llcv 
 The Titan-race, a rebel crew. 
 That from a hundred hills allied 
 In impious leagues Uieir king dcliend. 
 
 This W(jnder of tlie sculptor's had 
 Produc'd, his art was at a stand : 
 P'or who would hope now fame to raise, 
 Or ris'.c his well-establisird jiraise, 
 That, his high genius to approve, 
 Had drawn a tii'orge, or carvM a Jove?'' 
 
 Somerville. William Somcrville's chief work is a poem written
 
 624 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 in blank verse, entitled The Chase, and describing in a very ani- 
 mated manner, the circumstances attending that sport. He 
 possessed the principal requisite of excellence, namely, a thorough 
 intelligence of the subject upon which he wrote ; and this he has 
 enlarged by recounting the modes of hunting used in other coun- 
 tries, introducing at the same time such transition and variety, as 
 to render the poem, in spite of the dryness of the subject, always 
 interesting. The Chase can rank amongst the best of the didactic 
 poems of the English language ; and is written throughout with 
 remarkable vigour and excellence. The following passage on 
 the sagacity and the power of instinct in brutes, has been se- 
 lected from this poem. 
 
 "Observe that inslinst which unerring guides 
 The brutal race, which mimics reason's lore, 
 And oft transcends : Heaven-taught, the roebuck swift 
 Loiters at ease before the driving pack, 
 And mocks their vain pursuit ; nor far he flies, 
 But checks his ardour, till the steaming scent 
 That freshens on the blade, provokes their rage. 
 Urg'd to their speed, his weak deluded foes 
 Soon flag fatigued : strain to excess each nerve, 
 Each slacken'd sinew fails ; they pant, they foam, 
 Then o'er the lawn he bounds, o'er the high hills 
 Stretches secure, and leaves the scatter'd crowd 
 To puzzle in the distant vale below. 
 
 'Tis Instinct that directs the jealous hare 
 To choose her soft abode : With step revers'd 
 She forms the doubling maze ; then, ere the morn 
 Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess. 
 
 As wandering shepherds on th' Arabian plains 
 No settled residence observe, but shift 
 Their moving camp, now on some cooler hill 
 With cedars crown'd, court the refreshing breeze ; 
 And then, below, where trickling streams distil 
 From some penurious source, their thirst allay, 
 And feed their fainting flocks : so the wise hares 
 Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye 
 Should mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous wiles, 
 Plot their destruction ; or perchance in hopes 
 Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead, 
 Or matted blade, wary and close they sit. 
 When spring shines forth, season of love and joy, 
 In the moist marsh, 'mong beds of rushes hid. 
 They cool their boiling blood : when summer suns 
 Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide waving "fields
 
 Green, 625 
 
 Of corn full grown they lead their helpless young ; 
 But when autumnal torrents and fierce rains 
 Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank 
 ThcTT forms they delve, and cautiously avoid 
 The ti ripping covert : yet when winter's cold 
 Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed return'd 
 In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep 
 Among the wither'd leaves ; thus changing still, 
 As fancy prompts them, or as food invites." 
 
 Of his Other poems, Rural ^/i?;/ is the only one worthy of re- 
 mark, and the beauty of this is somewhat destroyed by its being 
 written in blank verse. 
 
 Green. The principal work of this poet, is the lively and des- 
 criptive poem entitled The Spleen. It is written in octosyllabic 
 verse, and contains many passages where new ideas are expressed 
 in singularly felicitous images. The following lines on The IVish 
 from this poem, will immediately illustrate its merits : 
 
 "Two hundred pounds, half-yearly paid. 
 Annuity securely made, 
 A farm some twenty miles from town, 
 Small, tight, salubrious, and my own ; 
 Two maiils that never saw the town, 
 A serving-man, not quite a clown, 
 A boy to help to tread the mow, 
 And drive, while t' other holds the plough. 
 A chief, of temper form'd to please, 
 Fit to converse and keep the keys ; 
 And better to jirescrve the peace, 
 Commission'd by the name of ncice ; 
 With understandings of a size 
 To think their master very wise. 
 May Heaven (it's all I wish for) send 
 One genial room to treat a friend. 
 Where decent cu]~)board, little plate, 
 I)is])lay benevolence, not state. 
 And may my humble dwelling stand 
 Upon some chosen spot of land : 
 A pond before full to the brim, 
 Where cows may cool, and geese may swim : 
 Ik'hind, a green, like velvet neat. 
 Soft to the eye and to the feet ; 
 Where (xTrous plants in cv'ning fair 
 ISreathe all annmd ambrosial air ; 
 from luirus, foe to kitchen ground, 
 fenc'd by a slope with bushes crown'd, 
 Fit dwelling for the feather'd throng.
 
 626 Modern Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Who pay their quit-rents with a song ; 
 With op'ning views of hill and dale, 
 Which sense and Fancy too regale." 
 
 Savage. Richard Savage was the writer of miscellaneous 
 poems, of which the best are The Wanderer, and The Bastard. 
 The circumstances of his own birth no doubt suggested the sub- 
 ject of the latter poem, Savage being the bastard child of Richard 
 Savage, Earl Rivers, and the Countess of Macclesfield. This writer 
 certainly possessed a truly poetical genius, and there is an origi- 
 nality of sentiment in his poetry, which gives it a distinguishing 
 feature. The following passages with which the poem of The Bas- 
 tard opens and concludes, may be read as an example of his 
 writing. 
 
 "Blest be the Bastard's birth ! through wondrous ways, 
 
 He shines eccentric like a comet's l)laze ! 
 
 No sickly fruit of faint compliance He ! 
 
 He ! stampt in nature's mint of ecstacy ! 
 
 He lives to build, not boast, a generous race : 
 
 No tenth transmitter of a foolish face. 
 
 His daring hope, no fire's example bounds ; 
 
 His first-born lights, no prejudice confounds. 
 
 He, kindling, from within, requires no flame ; 
 
 He glories in a Bastard's glowing name. 
 Born to himself, by no possession led. 
 
 In freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed ; 
 
 Nor guides, nor rules, his sovereign choice control. 
 
 His body inde]:)endant as his soul ; 
 
 Loos'd to the world's wide range enjoy'd no aim, 
 
 Prescrib'd no duty, and assign"d no name : 
 
 Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone. 
 
 His heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own. 
 * * * * * 
 
 Mother, miscall'd, farewell of soul severe, 
 
 This sad reflection yet may force one tear : 
 
 All I was wretched by to you I ow'd. 
 
 Alone from strangers every comfort flow'd ! 
 Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, 
 
 And now adopted, who was doom'd before, 
 
 New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim, 
 
 But dare not whisper her immortal name ; 
 
 Supremely lovely, and serenely great ! 
 
 Majestic ^lother of a kneeling State I 
 
 QuKEN of a people's heart, who ne'er before ! 
 
 Agreed yet now with one consent adore I 
 
 One contest yet remains in this desire, 
 
 Who most shall give aj)plause, where all admire.
 
 Dyer. Mallett. 627 
 
 Dyer. This poet deserves mentioning among the minor poets 
 of this date. He is a poet who gives promise of tlie better school 
 that was soon to adorn English literature. His imagination and 
 style received Wordsworth's praise ; and Gray says of him "He 
 has more of poetry in his imagination than any of our number ; 
 but rough and injudicious." His chief poems are The Fleece, and 
 Grcngar Hill. They both contain many pleasing pictures of 
 nature, but the poem of Gtongar Hill, is far superior to the former: 
 it is written in the following easy and flowing verse. 
 
 "Silent Nymph! with curious eye, 
 Who, the purple evening, lie 
 On the mountain's lonely van, 
 Heyond the noise of busy man, 
 Painting fair the form of things, 
 While the yellow linnet sings ; 
 Or the tuneful nightingale 
 Charm the forest with her tale ; 
 Come, with all (hy various hues, , 
 
 Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 
 Now, while Plirebus riding high, 
 Gives lustre to the land and sky , 
 Grongar Hill invites my song. 
 Draw the landscape bright and strong : 
 Cirongar ! in whose mossy cells. 
 Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
 Grongar ! in whose silent shade, 
 Tor tiie modest Muses made. 
 So oft I have, the evening still. 
 As the fountain of a rill, 
 Sal upon a (low'ry bed. 
 With my hand beneath my head. 
 While stray"d my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 
 Over mead and over wood, 
 From hou>e to house, fi'om hill to hill, 
 Till Contemplation had licr fill. 
 * * * * * 
 
 O may I wiili m}-se]f aL;rec, 
 And ne\er concI what i sec ! 
 Content lue with a humble shade, 
 My pas>i<'ns tam'd. my wi-hcs laid ; 
 I-'or wiiilc our wis!u'> wildly roll, 
 We baniih (piict from the soul." 
 
 Mamk'I r. This writer is known chictlybyhis /?,///<?//.*, of which 
 IVil/iain and M(ii\i;iuil, and Edwin and Emma, are the most 
 striking and beautiful. They arc two well known to require quoting.
 
 628 Modern Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Blair. Blair is the writer of a serious meditative poem in blank 
 
 verse, entitled The Grave, which has always been admired for the 
 
 strong and solemn pictures that it paints of mortal affairs. The 
 
 popularity of this poem is owing more to the intensity and terrible 
 
 interest of the subject, than to any real beauty. There are many 
 
 very fine and powerful passages in this poem, amongst which the 
 
 following passage on Friend-ship, may be read as one of the finest. 
 
 "Invidious Grave ! how doth thou rend in sunder 
 Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! 
 A tie more stubborn far than Nature's band. 
 Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; 
 Sweetner of life, and solder of society, 
 I owe thee much. Thou hast dcserv'd from me, 
 Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
 Oft have 1 prov'd the labours of thy love, 
 And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, 
 Anxious to please. Oh ! when my friend and I 
 In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, 
 Hid frojn the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
 Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, 
 Where the pure limpid stream has slid along 
 In grateful errors thro' the underwood, 
 Sweet murmuring ; methouglit the shrill tongu'd thrush 
 Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
 Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'cU every note : 
 The eglantine smelFd sweeter, and the rose 
 Assum'd a dye more deep ; whilst ev'ry flower 
 Vy'd with its fellow-plant in luxury 
 Of dress Oh ' then the longest summer's day 
 Seem'd too much in liaste ; still the full heart 
 Had not imparted half : 'twas happiness 
 Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, 
 Not to return, how painful the remembrance." 
 
 Howard. Sir Robert Howard, brother-in-law to Dryden, is the 
 
 author of the />//(?/ ^y//'^ ^S"/c?^\f, and other poems. Besides these 
 
 he wrote several heroic plays, which although not read now, were 
 
 very popular in their day. The following is a speciinen of his 
 
 writing, and contain in a few lines all tlie true essentials of poetry. 
 
 "We always should remember Death is sure ; 
 What grov\ s familiar most, we best endure ; 
 For life and death succeed like night and day, 
 And neither gives increase, nor biings decay ; 
 We must all pass through Death's dead sea of night 
 To reach the haven of eternal light,"
 
 Haviillon. Cotton. 629 
 
 Hamilton, William Hamilton was the author of miscellaneous 
 poetry, principally of a moral character. The following specimen 
 is from a Soliloquy, written in 1740, after the failure of the Preten- 
 der's expedition, in which the writer was unfortunately connected. 
 
 "Mysterious inmate of this breast, 
 Enkindled by lliy flame ; 
 By thee my being's best exprest, 
 For what thou art 1 am : 
 
 With thee I claim celestial birth, 
 
 A spark of heaven's own ray ; 
 Without tliee sink to vilest earth, 
 
 Inanimated clay. 
 Now in this sad and dismal hour 
 
 Of multiply'd distress, 
 Has any former thought the power 
 
 To make thy sorrows less ? 
 
 When all around thee cruel snares 
 
 Threaten thy destin'd breath, 
 And every sharp rellection bears 
 
 Want, exile, chains, or death ; 
 Can aught that pass'd in youth's fond reign 
 
 Thy pleasing vein restore ? 
 Lives beauty's gay and festive train 
 
 In memory's soft store ? 
 Or does the muse? 'Tis said her art 
 
 Can fiercest jiangs appease ; 
 Can slic to thy jioor trembling heart 
 
 Now speak the words of peace ? 
 Vet slie was wont at early dawn 
 
 To whisper tliy rejjose, 
 Nor was her friendly aid withdrawn 
 
 At grateful evening's close. 
 
 l''rienus]ii|i, 'lis true, ils sacred might 
 
 May mitigate thy (l(H)m ; 
 As lightning, sliot across the night, 
 
 A moment gilds ihe gloom." 
 
 Cotton. Nathaniel Cotton it known as the author oi Miscella- 
 ncoKS Poems. There arc many in this collection of the highest 
 merit, and others of such bc.iuty as to give this pool a prominent 
 position in the rank of our lesser English poets. The following 
 poem To-Mo) ro\,', is selected as an example. 
 "'ro-nmrrow, didsl tliou say I 
 Alelhoughl I heard iloratiosay, To-ni'jrrow. 
 Co to I will not hear of it to-morrow !
 
 630 Modern Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 ' Tis a sharper who takes penury 
 
 Against thy plenty who takes thy ready cash, 
 
 And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises, 
 
 The currency of idiots. Injurious Ijankrupt 
 
 That gulls the easy creditor ! To-morrow! 
 
 It is a period nowhere to be found 
 
 In all the hoary registers of time 
 
 Unless perchance in the fool's calendar. 
 
 Wisdom disclaims the words, nor holds society 
 
 With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 
 
 'Tis ]'"ancy's child, and Folly is its Father; 
 
 Wrought on such stuff as dreams are ; and baselets 
 
 As the fantastic visions of the evening." 
 
 Lyttleton. Lord Lyttleton's poetry is of only moderate merit, 
 although there may be found a few passages of beauty. Perhaps 
 one of the best of his small pieces is his Description of a Female 
 Character. 
 
 " Her kindly melting heart. 
 
 To every want and eveiy woe ; 
 
 To guilt itself when in distress, 
 
 The balm of pity would impart, 
 And all relief that bounty could bestow ! 
 E'en for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life 
 
 Beneath the bloody knife. 
 
 Her gentle tears would fall. 
 As she the common mother were of all. 
 
 Not only good, and kind, 
 But strong and elevated was her mind : 
 
 A spirit that, with noble pride, 
 Could look, superior down 
 On Fortune's smile, or frown ; 
 
 That could, without regret or pain, 
 
 To Virtue's lowest duly sacrifice 
 
 Or Interest's, or ambition's highest prize; 
 
 That, injur'd or offended, never try'd 
 Its dignity by vengeance to maintain. 
 
 But by magnanimous disdain. 
 
 A wit that temperately bright. 
 With inoffensive light, 
 
 All pleasing shone, nor ever past 
 The decent bounds, that \\'isdoai's sober hand. 
 And sweet Benevolence's mild command. 
 And bashful modesty before it cast 
 A prudence, undeceiving, undeceiv'd ; 
 That nor too little, nor too much believ'd ; 
 That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear, 
 And without weakness knew to be sincere."
 
 Armstrong, y^ohnson. 631 
 
 Armstrong. John Armstrong was the author of a didactic or 
 instructive poem, entitled The Art of Preserving Health. In this 
 class of poetry Armstrong ranks exceedingly high, and is surpass- 
 ed only by Akenside, who possessed a rich poetical imagination 
 and pomp of diction not to be found in Armstrong. The latter, 
 however is more equable, and TJie Art of Preservitig Health is 
 remarkable for a chaste and correct elegance. There are other 
 smaller pieces by this poet, but of less merit and importance. The 
 following passage has been selected from the above mentioned. 
 
 DIET. 
 
 "Learn temperance, friends; and Jiear without disdain 
 The choice of water. Thus the Coan sage 
 OjiinM, and thus the learn'd of every scliool. 
 \Viiat least of foreign ]")rinci])les partakes 
 Is best. Tlie highest then, wliat hears the touch 
 Of fire the least, and soonest mounts in air ; 
 The most insipid; tlic most void of smell. 
 Such the rude mountain from liis liorrid sides 
 Pours down ; such waters in the sandy vale 
 For ever boil, alike of winter frosts 
 And summer's heat secure. The crystal stream, 
 O'er roc'- s rcsouncHng, or for many a mile 
 llurl'd down the ])ebl)ly chaimel, wliolesome yields 
 'And mellow drauglus : exeejit wlien winter thaws, 
 And half the mountains melt into the tide." 
 
 JOHXSON. Tiic principal j)octical works of Samuel Johnson, 
 are two satires, entitled Lo/alu/i, :ind 'Ilic Vanity oj Human Wishes; 
 the former being an excellent paraphrase upon the third satire of 
 Juvenal. In that satire, Juxenal directs his venom against the 
 corruptions of society in Rome at that ])eriod, and the misery and 
 humiliation which a poor but honest man I;ad to encounter; con- 
 trasted with the immense riches and intlucnce obtained by the most 
 unworth}' arts by (jrccks. and f i\-orite freedmcn. These invectives 
 of Juvenal, [olmson lias skilfully and artistically transferred to the 
 ]X-tssion for imitating Krencli fi^iiions, and adapted the images of 
 llic Roman poet, to the \iccs, C(>rru[)linns, and discomforts of Lon- 
 don. Tl'.c jioein possesses tlir()u,;liout. tiic i)ower and fire of the 
 original, and breathes the true indignation and scorn of its Roirian 
 prototype. Tlic f )Ilo\\ing passage is selected from it as an example.
 
 632 Modern Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 "By numbers here, from shame or censure free, 
 All crimes are safe but hated poverty : 
 This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 
 This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. 
 The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak 
 Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke ; 
 With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze. 
 And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 
 Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd. 
 Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; 
 Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart 
 Thau when a blockhead's insult points the dart. 
 
 Has Heaven reserv'd, in pity to Ihe poor, 
 No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore ? 
 No secret island in the boundless main? 
 No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain ? 
 Quick let us rise, the hapj^y seats explore, 
 And bear Oppression's insolence no more. 
 This mournful truth is everywhere confess'd : 
 Slow rises worth, by poverty distress'd ; 
 But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold. 
 Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold ; 
 Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, 
 The groom retails the favours of his lord." 
 
 Gambold. John Gambold was the author of a tragedy entitled 
 
 Ignathts, and other smaller poems. Besides these, he is the writer 
 
 of a nuinber of Hymns in the Alormnan BretJiren^s Collection. 
 
 There is an merit in his writings, equal to any minor poet of his 
 
 time, and there may be found in some, passages of the highest 
 
 sublimity and loftiest conception. For an example the following 
 
 stanza is quoted. 
 
 epitaph on himself. 
 "Ask not, who ended here his span? 
 His name, reproach and praise, was man. 
 Did no great deeds adorn his course? 
 No deed of his, but show'd him worse : 
 One thing was great, which God supplied. 
 He suffer'd human life and died. 
 What points of knowledge did lie gain ? 
 That life was sacred all and vain : 
 Sacred how high, and vain how low. 
 He knew not here, but died to know." 
 
 Glover. The only important work of this poet is an epic, on 
 
 the subject of the Persian wars, named Leonidas, which became 
 
 iminensely popular at the time it was written, thougli little read 
 
 now. He wrote also as a kind of continuation of this, a second
 
 Shenstone. 633 
 
 epic poem called Athenais. Its success at the time of publication 
 may be attributed in a great measure to the zeal for liberty which 
 at that time raged in England. Every kind of composition that 
 embraced the subject of freedom received public favour ; and thus 
 this poem, which is founded upon the noblest principles of liberty 
 and displays the most brilliant examples of patriotism., was also 
 liberally received. But that to which Leonidas owed its success, 
 also occasioned the neglect to which it afterwards became subject, 
 both circumstances being influenced by party principles. Though 
 it is not in the highest class of epic poems, it is character- 
 ized by a bold spirit of liberty, which added to many tender 
 and noble sentiments, renders it delightful and interesting. 
 There arc many parts of considerable beauty which might have 
 been chosen as examples, amongst which the following passage 
 from the First Book, 
 
 ''''Iw speechless anguish on the hero's breast 
 She sinks. On ev'ry side liis children press, 
 Hang on his knees, and kiss his honour'd hand. 
 His soul no longer struggles to confine 
 Her agitation. Down the hero's cheek, 
 Down flows the manly sorrow. Great in woe, 
 Amid his children, who enclose him round, 
 He stands, indulging tenderness and love 
 In graceful tears, when thus, with lifted eyes 
 Address'd to heaven, 'Thou ever-living pow'r 
 Look down pro]Mti()us, sire of gods antl men ! 
 O to this faithful wi)man, whose desert 
 May claim thy favour, grant the hours of peace ! 
 And thou, my bright forefather, seed of Jove, 
 O Hercules, neglect not these thy race ! 
 Hut, since that spirit 1 from thee derive 
 Trans[)orts me from them to resistless fate, 
 I'e thou their guardian ! Teach them, like thyself, 
 liy ^lorious labours to embelish life, 
 Ar.d from their father let them learn to die ! '" 
 
 Sfikn'STOXF., This poet is famous for his pastoral elegies, which 
 have a softness and smootliness of diction in the highest degree 
 pleasing, although tlicy better refer to the actual sentiments 
 and circumstances of rustic life. His Sclioobiiistycss will always 
 lioldaplacc amongst luiglish poems. It is written in the Spenser- 
 ian stanzas, and paints with a delightful mixture of ([uaint nl.u fulness
 
 634 ' Mitwr Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 and tender description, the characters and pursuits of an old village 
 dame, who keeps a rustic-school ! Shenstone has never been ex- 
 celled in elegiac poetry, and in the simplicity of his pastoral 
 poetry there are also very few who equal him. The following verses 
 on Disappoint7nent, from his well-known Pastoral Ballads, are 
 quoted below. 
 
 " Ye shepherds ! give ear to my lay, 
 
 And take no more heed of my sheep ; 
 They have nothing to do but to stray, 
 
 I have nothing to do but to weep. 
 Yet do not m)' folly reprove ; 
 
 She was fail- and my passion begun ; 
 She smifd and I could not but love ; 
 
 She is faithless and I am undone. 
 
 She is faithless, and I am undone ; 
 
 Ye that witness the woes I endure, 
 Let reason instruct you to shun 
 
 What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
 Beware how you loiter in vain 
 
 Amid nymphs of an higher degree ; 
 It is not for me to explain 
 
 How fair and how fickle they be. 
 
 Alas ! from the day that we met 
 
 What hope of an end to my woes ? 
 When I cannot endure to forget 
 
 The glance that undid my repose. 
 Yet time may diminish the pain : 
 
 The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, 
 Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, 
 
 In time may have comfort for me. 
 
 The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, 
 
 The sound of a murmuring stream. 
 The peace which from solitude flows. 
 
 Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. 
 High transports are shown to the sight, 
 
 liut we are not to find them our own ; 
 Fate never bestow'd such delight 
 
 As I with my Phyllis had known. 
 
 ye woods ! spread your branches apace, 
 To your deepest recesses I fly, 
 
 1 would hide with the beasts of the chase, 
 I would vanish from every eye. 
 
 Yet my reed shall resound through the grove, 
 
 ^^ itli the same sad complaint it began ; 
 How she smifd and I could not but love I 
 
 Was faitliless and I am undone !"
 
 Cawthorn. Smollett. 635 
 
 Cawthorn. James Cawthorn was the author of the poem called 
 
 Abelard to E/oisa, besides other miscellaneous pieces. Amongst the 
 
 latter there may be found many of much beauty, and others of 
 
 the most tender and pathetic character. The following specimen 
 
 is selected from a poem written On Two Daughters^ twins, who 
 
 died in two days. 
 
 "Dear, precious Babe.s ! alas ! when, fondly wild, 
 A mother's heart hung melting o'er her child ; 
 When my charm'd eye a flood of joy express'd, 
 And ail the father kindled in my breast, 
 A sudden paleness seized each guiltless face, 
 And death, though smiling, crept o'er every grace. 
 
 Nature, be calm ; heave not the impassion'd sigh, 
 Nor teach one tear to tremble in mine eye ; 
 A few unspotted moments, pass'd between 
 Tiieir dawn of being, and tlieir closing scene ; 
 And sure no nobler blessing can be given, 
 Wlien one sliort anguisli is the price of heaven." 
 
 Smollett. Thomas Smollett is more eminent as a novelist 
 than as a poet, yet there are a few poetical pieces written by him, 
 which exhibit great delicacy, and an elevated tone of sentiment. 
 The best of his verses are those entitled the Tears of Scotland : 
 they breathe throughout an earnest patriotism, and display a gen- 
 uine indignation against the cruelties which were inflicted after the 
 battle of Culloden. The language is bitter and stinging. The 
 most popular of his )ioems\i i\\e Ode to Lci'en-lVatdr, which we 
 quote as a specimen. 
 
 "On Lcvcn's banks, wiiiie free to rove, 
 And tune the rural pipe to love ; 
 I envied not the happiest swain 
 That ever trod tli' Arcadian pLain. 
 
 Pure stream, in wliose transparent wave 
 My youtiiful liinl)s I wont to kive ; 
 No torrents stain tliy iinii)i(l source ; 
 No rocks impede tliy (Hnipling course, 
 That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
 With wliite, round, polish'd pebbles sjiread ; 
 While, lit,'htly jioisM. the scaly brootl 
 In myriads cleave thy crystal tloinl ; 
 The springing ti'out in speckled pritle ; 
 The salmon, monarch of the tide, 
 The ruthless pike, intent on war; 
 The silver eel, and mottled par. 
 Devolving from thy parent lake,
 
 636 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 A charming maze thy waters make, 
 By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, 
 And edges flower'd with eglantine. 
 Still on my banks so gaily green, 
 May num'rous herds and flocks be seen, 
 And lasses chaimting o'er the pail, 
 And shepherds piping in the dale. 
 And ancient Faith that knows no guile, 
 And Industry embrown'd with toil, 
 And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd. 
 The blessing they enjoy to guard !" 
 
 Blacklock. -The works of Thomas Blacklock, the blind poet, 
 surprise by the correctness and vividness of the descriptions, par- 
 ticularly of natural objects. In his style he ranks equally with 
 Parnell or Shenstone, and many of his poems show at once how 
 alive his mind was to the sublime and beautiful. The following 
 Hymn to Benevolence is beautifully written and expressed : 
 
 "Hail, source of transport ever new! 
 While I thy strong impulse pursue, 
 
 I taste a joy sincere ; 
 Too vast for little minds to know, 
 Who on themselves alone bestow 
 
 Their wishes and their care. 
 Daughter of God ! delight of man ! 
 From thee Felicity began ; 
 
 Which still thy hand sustains ; 
 By thee sweet Peace her empire spread, 
 Fair Science rais'd her laurel'd head. 
 
 And Discord gnash 'd in chains. 
 Far as the pointed sunbeam flies 
 Through peopled earth and starry skies, 
 
 All nature owns tliy nod ; 
 We see its energy prevail 
 Through being's ever-rising scale, 
 
 From nothing e'en to God. 
 By thee inspir'd. the generous breast, 
 In blessing others only blest ; 
 
 With goodness large and free, 
 Delights the widow's tears to stay, 
 To teach the blind their smoothest way, 
 
 And aid the feeble knee. 
 O come ! and o'er my bosom reign, 
 Expand my heart, inflame each vein, 
 
 Through ev'ry action shine ; 
 Each low, each selfish wish control ; 
 With all thy essence %\arm my soul, 
 
 And make me wholly thine.
 
 Smart. 637 
 
 If from thy sacred paths I turn, 
 
 Nor feel their griefs, while others mourn, 
 
 Nor with their pleasures glow : 
 Banish'd from God, from bliss, and thee, 
 My own tormenter let me be, 
 
 And groan in hopeless woe." 
 
 Smart, The most remarkable of this poet's writings is the 
 Song to David, which was indented on the wall of his cell in which 
 he was confined as a maniac, with a key, when in prison. Mont- 
 gomery says, "the last stanza alone of this poem might give 
 immortality to any name ; it is a most perfect specimen of the 
 sublime." Smart is also the author of a satire called the Hiliad, an 
 attack on the well-known Sir John Hill. The following are the 
 stanzas, called David, alluded to above. 
 
 "Sublime, invention ever-young, 
 Of vast conception, towering tongue, 
 To God th' eternal theme ; 
 Notes from your exaltations caught, 
 Unrivall'd royalty of thought, 
 O'er meaner thoughts supreme. 
 
 His muse, bright angel of his verse. 
 Gives Ixilm for all the thorns that pierce, 
 For all the I'angs that rage : 
 Blest light still gaining on the gloom, 
 The more than Michael of his bloom. 
 Th' Abishag of his age. 
 
 He sang of God the mighty source 
 
 Of all things that stupendous force. 
 
 On which all strength depends ; 
 
 From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, 
 
 All perioti, power and enlerprize 
 
 Gommenccs, reigns and ends. 
 
 The world, the clustering spheres he made. 
 The glorious light the soothing shade. 
 Dale, cliami)aign, grove and hill ; 
 The multitudinous abyss, 
 Where secresy remains in bliss ; 
 And wisdom hides her skill. 
 
 'Tell ihcin, I AM,' Jehovali said 
 
 To Moses, while earth heard in dread ; 
 
 And, smitten to the heart, 
 
 At once, abo\e, beneath, around. 
 
 All nature, without voice or sountl. 
 
 Replied, 'O Lord, Thou Art.'"
 
 638 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 WiLKlE. Though a less important poet, there may be found 
 amongst the pieces by Wilkie, several that display a consider- 
 able talent ; and there is in all, a correct versification. He is not 
 fcmarkable for any particular poem, however. The Fable of the 
 Boy and the Rainbow, may be read as one of his best pieces. 
 
 "One ev'ning as a simple swain 
 His flock attended on the plain, 
 The shining Bow he chanc'd to spy, 
 Which warns us when a show'r is nigh ; 
 With l:)rightest rays it seem'd to glow. 
 Its distance eighty yards or so. 
 This bumpkin had, it seems, been told 
 The story of the cup of gold, 
 Which Fame reports is to be found 
 Just where the Rainbow meets the ground ; 
 He therefore felt a sudden hitch 
 To seize the jroblet, and be rich ; 
 Hoping, yet hopes are oft but vain, 
 No more to toil thro' wind and rain, 
 But sit indulgent by the fire, 
 'Midst ease and jdenty, like a squire I 
 He mark'd the very spot of land 
 On which the Rainbow seem'd to stand, 
 And stepping forwards at his leisure, 
 Expected to have found the treasure. 
 But as he mov'd, the colour'd ray 
 Still chang'd its place, and shpt away, 
 As seeming his approach to shun ; 
 From walking he began to run ; 
 But all in vain, it still withdrew 
 As nimbly as he could pursue ; 
 At last, thro' many a bog and lake. 
 Rough craggy rock, and thorny brake, 
 It lead the easy fool, till night 
 Approach'd, then vanish'd in his sight. 
 And left him to compute his gains. 
 With nought but labour for his pains." 
 
 Mason. William Mason's chief poetical works beyond his 
 
 dramas, were Tlic English Garden, a poem in blank verse, and An 
 
 Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, Knight, a brilliant and 
 
 lively satire. The following beautiful Ode is selected from his 
 
 miscellaneous works as a specimen. 
 
 ODE TO TRUTH. 
 
 "Attend, ye sons of men ! attend and say. 
 Does not enough of my refulgent ray
 
 Churchill 639 
 
 ]5reak through the veil of your mortality ? 
 
 Say, does not reason in this form descry 
 Unnumher'd, nameless glories, that surpass 
 The angel's floating pomp, the sera]")h's glowing grace? 
 
 f^hall then your earth-born daughters vie 
 
 With me ! shall she, whose brightest eye 
 But emulates the diamond's blaze, 
 
 Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, 
 
 \A hose breath the hyacinth's perfume, 
 Wliose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays, 
 
 Shall she be deem'd my rival ? shall a form 
 Of tK:mental dross, of mnuld'ring clay, 
 
 Vie with these charms imperial ? The poor worm 
 Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day, 
 Sliall pass, and she is gone : while I appear 
 Flush'd with the bloom of youth througli lleav'n's eternal year. 
 
 Know, mortals, know, ere first ye sprung, 
 
 Krc first these orljs in ether hung, 
 I shone amid the heavenly throng : 
 
 These e}es beheld creation's day. 
 
 This voice began the choral lay. 
 And taught Archangels their triumphant song. 
 
 I'leas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, 
 Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread, 
 
 Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow' ring earth, 
 And ocean heave on its extended bed ; 
 Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky ; 
 The tawny lion stalk ; the rapid eagle (ly. 
 Last, ^Lan arose, erect in youthful grace, 
 lleav'n's hallow'd image stamjj'd upon his face. 
 
 And as he rose, the high behest was given, 
 
 'That I alone, of all the host of heaven, 
 'Should reign protectress of the godli'^e youth.' 
 
 Thus the Almighty si)ake : he spake, and call'd me Truth." 
 
 CiluRCHiLi,. Charles Ciuirchill has been considered the most 
 popular I'.nglish satirist between I'opc and ]?yron. His greatest 
 satire is the Rosciad, whicli has been placed on a level witli Dryden, 
 and wliich nl:)tained the greatest popularity at tlic time of publica- 
 tion. Although it has in it little poetical fer\-our, tlic rhythm is 
 fowinc; and pleasing and the diction easy, while the invective is 
 bold and pointed. Churchill sought for iinincdiaU' popularitv, and 
 ii truth lie was for a time one of the most ])opular of English 
 I iu!h ; but his fame was not lasting. He will alwavs hold a ])lace 
 li.iwevcr, amongst our Lngli.^h j'oets from the iiilluence lie had 
 o\tr the other ])oets of his time. 1 1 .in nay. in his Memoir of Churchill,
 
 640 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 says, "he helped to form Cowper, and he helped to form Crabbe." 
 
 The most poetical of his works is Gotham; Cowper terms it "a 
 
 masterly performance." An example of his satire may be seen in 
 
 "the following sketch af Bishop Warburton, which is equal in vigour 
 
 and keenness of edge to our greatest English satirist, Swift, 
 
 "The first entitled to the place 
 Of honour both by gown and grace, 
 Who never let occasion slip 
 To take right hand of fellowship, 
 And was so proud, that should he meet 
 The Twelve Apostles in the street, 
 He'd turn his nose up at them all, 
 And shove his Saviour from the wall ; 
 Who was so mean (Meanness and Pride 
 Still go together side by side) 
 That he would cringe, and creep, be civil. 
 And hold a stirrup for the devil. 
 If in a journey to his mind, 
 He'd let him mount and ride behind ; 
 Who basely fawned through all his life, 
 For patrons first, then for a wife ; 
 Wrote Dedications which must make 
 The heart of every Christian quake ; 
 Made one man equal to, or more 
 Than God, then left him, as Ijefore 
 His God he left, and, drawn l)y pride, 
 Shifted about to t' other side ; 
 Was by his sire a parson made, 
 Merely to give the boy a trade." 
 
 Warton. The name of Thomas Warton owes its chief lustre 
 to his History of English Poci7y, although he has written many 
 original pieces which display considerable descriptive and other 
 essential powers of poetic composition. The best of his verses are 
 Sofinets exhibiting much picturesque fancy, and breathing through- 
 out a true feeling of poetry. The following may be read as a 
 specimen of his writing, and is to be admired for the descriptive 
 beauties which it contains. 
 
 THE HAMLET, 
 
 "The hinds how blest who ne'er bcguil'd, 
 To quit their Hamlet's hawthorn-wild ; 
 Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main 
 For sjilcndid care, and guilty gain. 
 
 When Morning's twiliglit-tinctur'd lieam 
 Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam.
 
 Falconef. 841 
 
 They rove abroad in ether blue, 
 To dip the scythe in fragrant dew ; 
 The sheaf to bind, the Ijeech to fell, 
 
 That, nodding, shades a cragcj' dell. 
 
 * * * * 
 For them the moon with cloudless ray 
 
 Mounts, to illume their homeward way : 
 
 Their wear}' spirits to relieve, 
 
 'J'hc meadows incense breathe at eve. 
 
 No riot mars the simple fare 
 
 That o'er a j^limmering hearth they share ; 
 
 I!ut when the curfew's mcasur'd roar 
 
 Duly, tlie darkening valleys o'er, 
 
 I las echoed from the distant town, 
 
 They wish no beds of cygnet-down, 
 
 No trojjhied canopies, to close. 
 
 Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 
 
 * * * * 
 Their huml)!e porch with honey'd flowers 
 The curling woodbine's shade embowers : 
 From tlio small garden's lliyin)' nn>und 
 Their bees in busy swarms resi^nmd ; 
 Nor fell Disease, before his time, 
 Kastes to consume Life's golden prime ; 
 lUit when their temples long have wore 
 The silver crown of tresses hoar : 
 
 As studious still calm peace to keep, 
 Beneath a flowery turf they sleep." 
 
 Falconer. Falconer's descriptive poem, The Shipiv'rcck, has 
 always been considered as a valuable part of the stock of English 
 poetry. It is a narrative poem, in three cintos, describing a scene 
 of sufTcring which took place in a voyage from Alexandria to Venice 
 which the poet, then a. professional seamen, had himself witnessed. 
 It is a vigorous and correct painting of Nature under her wildest 
 aspects of storm and terror. A tale of affections is interwoven with 
 the narrative of the poem ; and tliis, with the liveliness and origina- 
 lity of the descriptions, renders the poem at all times interesting 
 and exciting. Many of the descriptive passages in this poem are 
 very finely written : for example tlic following passa.,e from the 
 First canto. 
 
 '"The sun'.^ ln'i ;'i; orb, .lec'iiiiiig all >(.-rene, 
 X"W :;l;;ii;-'_'i' "Mi'ivicly o\;r '.'le woo'llauil scene : 
 Creatio;; sini!c- nv.'und ; or. every sjir.iy 
 'l"hc warbling hir 1^ o.salt llieir evening lay :
 
 642 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period 
 
 Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train 
 Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain ; 
 The golden lime, and orange, there were seen 
 On fragrant branches of perpetual green ; 
 The crystal streams that velvet meadows lave, 
 To the green ocean roll with chiding wave. 
 The glassy ocean hushed forgets to roar, 
 But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore : 
 And lo ! his surface lovely to behold 
 Glows in the west, a sea of living gold ! 
 While, all above, a thousand liveries gay 
 The skies with pomp ineffable array. 
 Arabian sweets perfume the happy plains ; 
 Above, beneath, around, enchantment reigns I 
 While glowing vesper leads the starry train, 
 And night slow draws her veil o'er land, and main. 
 Emerging clouds the azure east invade, 
 And wrap the lucid spheres in gradual shade, 
 While yet the songsters of the vocal grove, 
 With dying numbers tune the soul to love." 
 
 Scott.- -The chief characteristics of the poems of John Scott, 
 are simplicity and elegance. They also breathe throughout a 
 spirit of tenderness, suggestive of the amiable and virtuous charac- 
 ter of the poet's mind. There is nothing of sublimity about them, 
 nor do they require it to complete their perfection. The eclogue 
 on The Praise of Rural Life, from which the following passage is 
 taken, is a worthy example of this poet's writing and may be read 
 as one of the finest specimens of pastoral poetry. 
 
 "Fair Spring o'er Nature held her gentlest sway, 
 Fair Morn diftusd around licr Ijrightcst ray ; 
 Thin mists hung hovering on the distant trees, 
 Or roll'd from off the fields before the breeze. 
 The shepherd Theron watch'd his fleecy train, 
 Beneath a broad oak, on the grassy plain : 
 A heath's green wild lay pleasant to his view, 
 W^ith shrubs and field-flowers deck'd of varied hue : 
 There hawthorns tall their silver bloom disclos'd. 
 Here flexile broom's bright yellow interpos'd ; 
 There purple orchis, here pale daisies spread, 
 And sweet May lilies richest odours shed. 
 From many a copse and blossom orchard near. 
 The voice of birds melodious charm'd the ear ; 
 There shrill the lark, and soft the linnet sung, 
 Anil loud through air the tlirostle's music rung, 
 The gentle swain the cheerful scene admir'd ; 
 The cheerful scene the song of joy inspir'd 
 'Chant on !' he cried 'ye warblers on the spray
 
 Darwin 643 
 
 Bleat on, ye flocks, that in the pastures play ! 
 Low on, ye herds, that range the dewy vales ! 
 Murmur, ye rills ! and whisper soft, ye gales ; 
 How blest my lot, in these sweet fields assign'd, 
 Where peace and leisure soothe the tuneful mind ; 
 Where yet some pleasing vestiges remain 
 Of unperverted Nature's golden reign, 
 Where Love and Virtue rang'd Arcadian shades, 
 With undesigning youths and artless maids ! 
 For us, tho' destin'd to a later time, 
 A less luxuriant soil, less genial clime ; 
 For us the country boasts enough to charm. 
 In the wild woodland or the cultur'd farm.'" 
 
 Darwin. The principal work of this poet is the Boianic Gar- 
 den, It is divided into two parts, the Economy of Vegetation 
 and the Loves of the Plants. In this worlc the poet has produced a 
 series of pictures which strike the fancy, and that is all : as Shaw 
 observes, "he was unfortunately guided by the notion that poetry 
 must address itself to the senses rather than to the sentiments," 
 The neglect of his works, although partly owing to this, may in a 
 measure also be attributed to the peculiarity of his doctrine. Many 
 of the subordinate descriptions in the Boiajiic Garden^ display 
 however, great force of language and much picturesqueness. For 
 instance, the opening canto from the Loves of the Plants. 
 
 "While in soft notes I tune to oaten reed 
 Gay hopes, and amorous sorrows of the mead. 
 From giant's oaks, that wave their branches dark, 
 To tlie dwarf moss that clings upon their bark, 
 What l)caux and beauties crowd the gaudy groves, 
 And woo and win their vegetable lovcs. 
 How snowdrops cold, and blue-eyed harfl)c!ls Ijleud 
 Their tender tears, as o'er the stream ihey bend ; 
 The love-sick violet, and the primrose pale, 
 IJow their sweet heads, and whisper to the gale ; 
 With secret sighs the virgin lily droojis. 
 And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cujis. 
 How the young rose in beauty's damask pride 
 Drinks the warm lilushes of his bashful l^ridc ; 
 With hcmey'd lips enamour'd wocdbines meet, 
 Cla->p will) fond arms, ami mix llieir kisses sweet. 
 
 Stay tliy soft nuinnuring waters, gentle rill ; 
 Ihisli, whisjieving winds ; ye ru-iling leaves, be still ; 
 Rest, silver butterllies, your (piivering wings; 
 Alight , ye beetles, from your airy rings ; 
 Vc painted moths , your gold-eyed plumage furl.
 
 S44i Mi7ior Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl ; 
 Glitter, ye glow-worms, on your mossy beds ; 
 Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads ; 
 Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnish'd shells ; 
 Ye bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells ! " 
 
 PORTEUS. Beilby Porteus (Bishop of London) distinguished 
 
 by his works on Divinity, was the writer of several miscellaneous 
 
 poems, amongst which is a prize poem, entitled Death. It is 
 
 written in a masterly manner, and contains passages of the highest 
 
 beauty. The following passage on Natural and Violent death, taken 
 
 from this poem, will afford an example. 
 
 "3 Man went to till the ground 
 
 From whence he rose ; sentenced indeed to toil 
 
 As to a punishment, yet (even in wrath, 
 
 So merciful is Heaven) this toil became 
 
 The solace of his woes, the sweet employ 
 
 Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard 
 
 Against disease and death. Death, tho' denounced. 
 
 Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm 
 
 Of age, his sole support, led slowly on. 
 
 Not then, as since, the short-lived sons of men 
 
 Flock 'd to his realms in countless multitudes ; 
 
 Scarce in the course of twice five hundred years. 
 
 One solitary ghost went shivering down 
 
 To his unpeopled shore. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Thus nerved with giant strength 
 He stemm'd the tide of time, and stood the shock 
 Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head. 
 At life's meridian point arrived, he stood. 
 And, looking round, saw all the valleys filled 
 With nations from his loins ; full-well content 
 To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er tlie earth. 
 Along the gentle slope of life's decline 
 Fie bent his gradual way, till, full of years, 
 He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave. 
 
 Such in the infancy of time was man ; 
 So calm was life, so impotent was death ! 
 O had he but preserved these few remains. 
 The shatter'd fragments, of lost happiness, 
 Snatch'd by the hand of Heaven from the sad wreck 
 Of innocence piimeval ; still had he lived 
 In ruin great ; tho' fall'n, yet not forlorn : 
 Though mortal, yet not everyw here beset 
 With death in e\ ey shape ! But he, imijalicnt 
 To be completely wretched, hastes tu iiil up 
 The measure ot his woes. ' Twas man himself
 
 Mickle, 646 
 
 Brought death into the world ; and man himself 
 Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, 
 And multiply'd destruction on mankind. 
 
 First envy, eldest born of hell, embrued 
 Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men 
 To make a death which nature never made, 
 And God aI)horr'd ; with violence rude to break 
 The thread of life ere half its length was run, 
 And rob a wretched brother of his Ijeing. 
 With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved 
 The execrable deed." 
 
 Mickle. Cnmnor Hall is perhaps the best known of this 
 
 poet's writings, but his reputation rests chiefly on his translation 
 
 from the Portuguese of Camoens, of the Lusciad. There is little 
 
 remarkable in his original poems, beyond a melodious versification. 
 
 The following stanzas are an example of his writings. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LAUY FON'D OF liOTANY. 
 
 " Say, gentle Lady of the bower. 
 For thou, tho young, art wise, 
 And known to thee is eveiy flower 
 Beneath our milder skies : 
 
 Say, which the j^lant of modest dye, 
 
 And lovely mien comliin'd. 
 That fittest to the pensive eye 
 
 Displays the virtuous mind. 
 I sought the groves, where innocence, 
 
 IMetliought miglu long reside ; 
 But April's IjJossoms Ijanisli'd tlience. 
 
 Gave Summer, Flora's pride. 
 I sought tlie garden's boasted haunt, 
 
 But on the gay parterre 
 Carnations glow, and tulips flaunt, 
 
 No humble llow'ret there. 
 The flower you seek, the nymph replies. 
 
 He liow'd the languid head ; 
 For on its bloom the blazing skies 
 
 Their sultry rage have shed. 
 ' Tis now the downward withering day, 
 
 Of Winter's dull presage, 
 That seeks not where the dog-stur's ray 
 
 lias shed his fiercest rage. 
 Vet search yen shade obscure, forlorn, 
 
 Where ru.le the hr.inible grows ; 
 
 There, sluuled hy the luimlile thorn, 
 
 The lingering primrose blows."
 
 646 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Beattie. The most celebrated of this poet's works, is that 
 
 entitled The Minstrel^ a poem written in the stanza of Spenser ; 
 
 in which the poet describes the progress of the imagination and 
 
 feelings of a young and rustic poet. Some of the descriptive passages 
 
 in this poem are very beautifully drawn ; of which an example 
 
 may be seen in the following stanzas : 
 
 " But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 
 The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
 The lowing herd ; The sheepfold's simple bell ; 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
 The hum of bees, and linnets lay of love, 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
 Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
 The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! 
 Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; 
 Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; 
 Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
 The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
 And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower." 
 
 WOLCOT. The works of John Wolcot, or, as he termed himself 
 
 in his writings, Peter Pindar, are remarkable for the humourous 
 
 spirit in which they are written ; this and their originality are their 
 
 chief characteristics. Of his v/ell-known Odes^ the following, To 
 
 The Glow-worm^ is one of the most admired. 
 
 " Bright stranger, welcome to my field ; 
 Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield ; 
 
 To me, oh, nightly be thy splendour giv'n ! 
 Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command, 
 How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand, 
 
 With ev'ry sweetest dew of heav'n ! 
 
 Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train 
 Amid their gambols on the stilly plain, 
 
 Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade ; 
 What lamp so fit, so pure as thine, 
 Amid the gentle elfin band to shine. 
 
 And chase the horrors of the midnight shade ? 
 
 Oh ! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bow'r. 
 And with barbarian beak thy life devour ! 
 Oh ! may no ruthless torrent of the sky.
 
 Piozzt. 647 
 
 O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat ; 
 Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat, 
 And bid thee 'mid the humming myriads die ! 
 
 Queen of the insect world, what leaves delight ? 
 
 Of such these willing hands a bow'r shall form. 
 To guard thee from the rushing rains of night, 
 
 And hide thee from the wild wing of the stonn. 
 Sweet child of stillness, 'mid the awful calm 
 
 Of pausing Nature thou art pleas'd to dwell ; 
 In happy silence to enjoy thy balm, 
 
 And shed through life a lustre round thy cell. 
 
 How different man, the imp of noise and strife, 
 Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life ! 
 
 Blest when the jDassions wild the soul invade ! 
 How nobler far to bid these whirlwinds cease. 
 To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace. 
 
 And, silent, shine in solitude and shade ! " 
 
 Piozzi. Mrs. Thrale, afterwards Mrs. Piozzi, is better known by 
 her principal prose work, Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, than by her 
 poetry ; although there are amongst the latter many pieces of great 
 merit and singular beauty. This will be found exemplified in 
 the following excellent little poem, The Three Warnings. The 
 passage in which Dobson is visited and warned for the third time 
 by Death, from this poem, is quoted as a specimen of the work of 
 this talented writer. 
 
 "And now one night in musing mood, 
 
 As all alone he sat, 
 
 Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate 
 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 Half kill'd with angor and surprise, 
 
 'So soon rcturn'd !' old Dolison cries. 
 
 'So soon, d' ye call it !' Death replies : 
 
 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ; 
 
 Since I was here before, 
 
 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, 
 
 And you are now fourscore.' 
 
 'So mucli the worse,' the clown rejoin'd ; 
 
 ' To spare the aged would be kind : 
 
 However, see your search be legal ; 
 
 And your authority is't regal? 
 
 Klse you are conic on a fool's errand. 
 
 With but a Secretary's warrant. 
 
 llesides you jironiis'd me Three Warnings, 
 
 Which I have look'd fir nights and mornings 
 
 lUU f)r tliat loss of time and case,
 
 648 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period 
 
 I can recover damages.' 
 
 'I know,' cries Death, 'that, at the best, 
 
 I seldom am a welcome guest : 
 
 But don't be captious, friend, at least: 
 
 I little thought you'd still be able 
 
 To stump about your farm and stable ; 
 
 Your years have run to a great length, 
 
 I wish you joy, tho', of your strength.' 
 
 'Hold,' says the farmer, 'not so fast, 
 
 I have been lame these four ye rs past.' 
 
 'And no great wonder,' Death replies ; 
 
 However, you still keep your eyes ; 
 
 And sure, to see one's loves and friends. 
 
 For legs and arms would make amends.' 
 
 'Perhaps,' says Dobson, 'so it might, 
 
 But latterly I've lost my sight.' 
 
 'This is a shocking story,' faith ; 
 
 Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death 
 
 'Each strives your sadness to amuse, 
 
 I warrant you hear all the news.' 
 
 ' There's none,' cries he ; ' and if there were, 
 
 I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.' 
 
 ' Nay then,' the spectre stern rejoin'd, 
 
 ' These are unjustifiable yearnings ; 
 
 If you a:re Lame, and Deaf and Blind, 
 
 You've had your three sufficient warnings, 
 
 So come along, no more we'll part': 
 
 lie said, and toucli'd him with his dart ; 
 
 And now old Dobson, turning pale, 
 
 Yields to his fate, so ends my tale." 
 
 Barbauld. Mrs. Barbauld's miscellaneous poems exhibit the 
 
 highest excellence, and tliere may be found in them many passages 
 
 of the greatest beauty. She is best remembered, however, by her 
 
 Essays. The following passage from her poem, the Address to the 
 
 Deity, is a very fine example of her writings. 
 
 "God of my life, and author of my days ! 
 Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 
 And trembling take upon a mortal tongue 
 That hallow'd name to harps of seraphs simg. 
 Yet here the briglitest seraphs could no more 
 Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore. 
 Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, 
 Are equal all, for all arc nothing here. 
 All Nature faints beneath the mighty name, 
 Wliich Natu-re's works through all lier parts, proclaim. 
 I feci that name my inmost tlioughts control. 
 And breathe an awful stillness thro' my soul ; 
 As l)y a charm, the waves of grief subside ;
 
 More, ' 649 
 
 Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide : 
 At thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
 And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace, 
 Till every worldly thought within me dies, 
 And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes, 
 Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 
 And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 I read his awful name emblazon'd high 
 With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky. 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree : 
 In every leaf that tremliles to the breeze 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees ; 
 With thee in shady solitudes I walk. 
 With thee in l)usy crowded cities talk ; 
 In every creature own thy forming power, 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 
 x- * * * * 
 
 And when the last, the closing hours draw nigh. 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 When treml)ling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high 
 And, having lived to Thee, in Thee to die." 
 
 More. The best known works of Hannah More are, Thoug'!:ts 
 on the Manners of tJie Great j On Female Educationj Calebs in 
 Search of a ll'ife, &^c., the latter of which is perhaps the best. 
 Her later works are of a more sombre tone, and possess none of 
 that ready sparkling humour, which characterizes her earlier pro- 
 ductions : her sacred dramas, however, are very fine, and contain 
 in many places, passages of striking pathos and beauty. For ex- 
 ample, the following lines h'om Dar'ld and Goliath : 
 
 ''And what is death? 
 Is it so terrible to die, my brother? 
 Or grant it terrible, is it for that 
 The less inevitable? If indeed, 
 Wo ce>uld by stratagem elude the blow. 
 When some high duly calls us f irlh to die. 
 And thus for ever shun it, and escape 
 The tuiiversal hit, then fond self-love. 
 Then cauti<uis prudence, boKlly might [iroducc 
 Their fine-spun arguments, their learned harangues, 
 
 /
 
 650 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Their cobweb arts, their phrase sophistical, 
 
 Their sirbtile doubts, and all the specious tricks 
 
 Of selfish cunning labouring for its end. 
 
 But since, howe'er protracted, death will come. 
 
 Why fondly study, with ingenious pains, 
 
 To put it off? To breathe a little longer 
 
 Is to defer our fate, but not to shun it. 
 
 Small gain ! which wisdom, with indifferent eye, 
 
 Beholds. Why wish to drink the bitter dregs 
 
 Of life's exhausted chalice, whose last runnings. 
 
 E'en at the best, are vapid ! Why not die 
 
 (If heaven so will) in manhood's op'ning bloom, 
 
 When all the flush of life is gay about us ; 
 
 When sprightly youth, with many a new-bom joy, 
 
 Solicits every sense ! so may we then 
 
 Present a sacrifice, unmeet indeed, 
 
 (Ah, how unmeet !) but less unworthy far". 
 
 Than the world's leavings ; than a worn-out heart, 
 
 By vice enfeebled, and by vain desires 
 
 Sunk and exhausted." 
 
 Jones. Sir William Jones has obtained a place amongst English 
 
 poets, by having published a volume of miscellaneous poems, and 
 
 various translations from the Eastern languages. Some of his 
 
 original lyrical pieces are much admired, and contain some most 
 
 beautiful passages. He is most eminent as an oriental scholar ; 
 
 and was one of the first Europeans who studied Sanskrit. The 
 
 following Ode in Imitation of Alcccus, selected from his works, 
 
 is a fine efTusion of patriotism. 
 
 "What constitutes a state ? 
 Not high-rais'd battlement and labour'd mound, 
 
 Thick wall or moated gate ; 
 Not cities proud with spires and turre's crown'd ; 
 
 Not bays and broad-arm'd ports. 
 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride, 
 
 Not starr'd and spangled courts. 
 Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride. 
 
 No : Men, high minded-men, 
 With powers as far above dull brutes endued. 
 
 In forest, brake, or den. 
 As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 
 
 Men, who their duties know, 
 But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain, 
 
 I'revent the lon'j-aim'd blow, 
 And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 
 
 These constitute a state. 
 And sovereign Law, that state's collected will,
 
 Seward. Logan. 651 
 
 O'er thrones and globes elate 
 Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill ; 
 
 Smit by her sacred frown 
 The fiend. Discretion, like a vapour sinks, 
 
 And e'en the all-dazzling Crown 
 Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 
 
 Such was this heaven-lov'd isle. 
 Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ; 
 
 No more shall Freedom smile ? 
 Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 
 
 Since all must life resign, 
 Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 
 
 'Tis folly to decline, 
 And steal inglorious to the silent grave." 
 
 Seward. Anna Seward was the writer of a number of Sonnets, 
 
 and a poetical novel, entitled Louisa. Her poems are almost now 
 
 forgotten, but there are many of great merit. The sonnet entitled 
 
 December Morning, is a fair specimen. 
 
 "I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, 
 Winter's pale dawn ; and as warm fires illume, 
 And cheerful tapers shine around the room, 
 Through misty windows bend by musing sight. 
 Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, 
 With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the gloom 
 That slow recedes ; while yon gray spires assume, 
 Rising from their dark pile, an added height 
 By indistinctness given. I'hen to decree 
 The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 
 To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee 
 W^isdom's rich page. Oh, hours more worth than gold, 
 By whose blest use we lengtlien life, and, free 
 From drear decays of age, outlive the old." 
 
 Logan. John Logan is the author of the tragedy entitled 
 
 Runnymede, and the well-known Ode to the Cuckoo. Besides 
 
 these works, there are to be found among his other pieces, many 
 
 of true beauty ; as for instance, Ossian's Hymn to the Sun, or the 
 
 following exquisite ode on Autumn. 
 
 "'Tis past ! no more the Summer blooms! 
 
 Ascending in the rear, 
 Behokl congenial Autunm comes, 
 
 The sabbath of the year ! 
 What time thy holy whispers breathe. 
 The pensive evening shaile beneatli. 
 
 And twiliglit consecrates the Hoods; 
 While Nature strips her garments gay,
 
 662 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 And wears the vesture of decay, 
 
 O let me wander through the sounding woods. 
 
 Ah ! well-known streams ! ah ! wonted groves, 
 
 Still pictur'd in my mind 1 
 Oh ! sacred scene of youthful loves, 
 
 Whose image lives behind ! 
 While sad I ponder on the past. 
 The joys that must no longer last ; 
 
 The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier, 
 The dying music of the grove. 
 And the last elegies of love. 
 Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood. 
 
 That hides me in its gloom, 
 While lost in melancholy mood 
 
 I muse upon the tomb. 
 Their chequer'd leaves the branches shed ; 
 Whirling in eddies o'er my head, 
 
 They sadly sigh that Winter's near ; 
 The warning voice I hear behind, 
 That shakes the wood without a wind, 
 And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. 
 
 Now will I court Lethean streams, 
 
 The sorrowing sense to steep ; 
 Nor drink oblivion of the themes 
 
 On which I love to weep. 
 Belated oft by fabled rill, 
 While nightly o'er the hallow'd hill 
 
 Aerial music seems to mourn ; 
 I'll listen Autumn's closing strain ; 
 Then woo the walks of youth again. 
 And pour my sorrows o'er th' untimely urn I " 
 
 Ferguson. This poet's works possessed a boundless fancy, 
 united to exquisite powers of observation, which may be considered 
 the necessary qualities of poetry. "He surveyed the face of nature," 
 observes a writer on his life, "and she stamped her image on his 
 soul : he looked around him on mankind and his eye penetrated 
 the recesses of the human heart : as a scholar he drank from the 
 stream of inspiration, in the hallowed source of ancient poesy," 
 In this respect Ferguson had an advantage over Burns ; but 
 although he is often equally-sprightly and vivacious in his poetry, 
 and sometimes soars with an elevated sweep ; yet he seldom darts 
 impetuous and sublime like the mighty genius of Burns. His
 
 Ferguson. 663 
 
 works exhibit real marks of genius : they are the glorious "dawn- 
 ingsofamind" which was extinguished "ere it had enlightened 
 the world with its meridian splendour." Ferguson's poems are 
 written partly in English and partly in Scotch. Those in Scotch are 
 full of humourous and characteristic descriptions of the Edinburgh 
 manners and amusements of the period. He was the principal 
 Scottish poet of the period, and will always hold an interesting posi- 
 tion as a poet, when we remember that his style and mannei exercised 
 great influence upon Burns whose "poetical progenitor," he has 
 been called. Amongst his poems written in the Scotch dialect, San- 
 die and Willie stands first : the two characters are so naturally drawn, 
 as to give it at once a peculiar interest. In pastoral poetry Ferguson 
 is equal to Pope or Shenstone ; and his poems of this class give strik- 
 ing examples of how clearly he could copy nature and still render her 
 attractive. A beautiful example is seen in his Mornini^, Noon, and 
 Nig/it : it is smooth in its versification, and possesses that simplicity 
 which constitutes the real interest of pastoral poetry. 
 
 Damon. 
 "Aurora now her welcome visit pays ; 
 Stern Darkness flies before her cheerful rays ; 
 Cool circling breezes whirl along the air, 
 And early shepherds to the fields repair ; 
 Lead we our flocks, then, to the mountains brow, 
 Wliere junipers antl thorny brambles grow ; 
 VMiere founts of water 'midst the daisies spring, 
 And soaring larks and tuneful linnets sing ; 
 Your pleasing song shall leacii our flocks to stray. 
 While sountling echoes smooth the sylvan lay. 
 
 Ai.EXIS. 
 
 'Tis tliine to sing the graces of the morn, 
 Tlie zepliyr trembling o'er the ripning corn ; 
 'Tis tliine with ease to cliant the rural lay, 
 Wliile bubbliusj; fountains to your numbers play. 
 No pil'ini; swain lliat treads the verdant lield, 
 Hut to your music and yoi;r verse must yield : 
 SiiiL; then, for here we may witii safety keep 
 Our sportive lamljkins on tiiis mossy steep. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 With iu(liIyL;h)W tlio :,un adorns tlie land, 
 The pearly dew -dmps on llie bushes stand ; 
 The lowiuL; oxen from the folds we hear, 
 And. snowy flocks ui>on the hills appear.
 
 654 Minor Poets of the Georgiaji Period. 
 
 Alexis. 
 How sweet the murmurs of the neighbouring rill ! 
 Sweet are the slumbers which its floods distil ! 
 Thro' pebbly channels winding as they run, 
 And brilliant sparkling to the rising sun." 
 
 Chatterton. The most remarkable name in the whole list of 
 poets of this age is that of Thomas Chatterton, who in his seven- 
 teenth year possessed the genius and ingenuity to execute a series 
 of literary forgeries, which he passed off upon some competent 
 judges as the productions of a versifier of the fifteenth century. 
 There are in them many passages of the highest beauty, sufficient 
 to give evidence that he possessed powers, which might have placed 
 him at the head of the poets of his day. Some of his verses written 
 at eleven years are worthy to be compared with the early poems of 
 any author either before or since his date. His smaller writings, 
 although possessing considerable merit are far inferior to the 
 Rowley poems. The verses entitled Resignation, said to have 
 been written not long before he committed suicide^ are a fair 
 example of his minor poems. 
 
 "O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, 
 Whose eye this atom globe surveys. 
 To thee, my only rock, I fly, 
 Thy mercy in thy justice praise. 
 
 The mystic mazes of thy will. 
 
 The shadows of celestial light. 
 Are past the power of human skill 
 
 But what th' Eternal acts is right. 
 
 O teach me in the tiying hour. 
 
 When anguish swells the dewy tear ; 
 To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r. 
 
 Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 
 
 If in this bosom aught but Thee, 
 
 Encroaching sought a boundless sway, 
 Omniscience could the danger see, 
 
 And Mercy look the cause away. 
 
 Then why, my soul, dost thou complain ? 
 
 Why drooping seek the dark recess? 
 Shake off the melancholy chain, 
 
 For God created all to bless. 
 
 But ah ! my breast is human still ; 
 The rising sigh, the falling tear,
 
 Roscoe. 655 
 
 My languid vitals' feeble rill, 
 The sickness of my soul declare. 
 
 But yet, with fortitude rcsign'd, 
 
 I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow ; 
 Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 
 
 Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow. 
 
 The gloomy mantle of the night, 
 
 Which on my sinking spirit steals, 
 Will vanish at the morning light. 
 
 Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals." 
 
 Roscoe. The poetical works of Thomas Roscoe are remarkable 
 
 for the easy manner in which the thoughts seem to have suggested 
 
 themselves. There are many of the highest merit, amongst which 
 
 may be mentioned the Ode to Education. The following verses 
 
 entitled The Butterfly s Ball and The Grasshoppers Feast, are 
 
 worth quoting. 
 
 "Come take up your hats, and away let us haste 
 To the Butterfly s Ijall and the GrassJioppcr's feast: 
 The trumpeter Gad-fly has summon'd the crew 
 And the revels arc now only waiting for you ; 
 
 On the smooth shaven grass, by the side of a wood, 
 Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood, 
 See the children of earth and the tenants of air 
 To an evening's amusement together repair ; 
 
 And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, 
 Who carried the Einniet, his friend, on his l)ack, 
 And tlicre came tlie Guat and the Dragou-lty too, 
 And all their relations, green, orange, and blue ; 
 
 And there came the Moth, with her plumage of down, 
 And the Hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown. 
 Who with him the Wasp, his companion did bring. 
 But they promis'd, that ev'ning to lay by their sting. 
 
 Then the sly little Dormouse peep'd out of his hole, 
 And led to the feast, his blind cousin the Mole ; 
 /nd the Snail, with her lK)rns peeping out of her shell, 
 Came, fatigued with the distance, the length of an ell ; 
 
 A mushroom the table, and on it w.as spread 
 A -icater-itoek leaf, whicii their taljle-cloth made. 
 The viands were various, to each of their taste. 
 And the bee brought the honey It) sweeten the feast. 
 
 With steps more majestic the .S';;(//7did advance. 
 And he promis'd the gazers a minuet to dance; 
 lUit they .til laugh'd so iiuul that he drew in his head, 
 And went, in his own little chamber, to bed ;
 
 656 Minor Poets oj the Georgian Period. 
 
 Then, as ev'ning gave way to the shadows of night, 
 Their watchman, the Glozv-ivorm, came out with his light. 
 So home let us hasten, while yet we can see ; 
 For no watchman is waiting for you or for me ! " 
 
 Bowles. William Lisle Bowles is distinguished chiefly as a 
 
 writer of sonnets, which in reality comprise the best of his works. 
 
 The following is quoted from amongst them. 
 
 "Oh, Charity ! our helpless nature's pride. 
 Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside. 
 Is there in morning's Ijreatli, or the sweet gale 
 That steals o'er the tir'd pilgrim of the vale, 
 Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame, 
 Aught like the incense of thy holy flame ? 
 Is aught in all the beauties that adorn. 
 The azure heav'n, or purple lights of morn ? 
 Is aught so fair in ev'ning's ling'ring gleam. 
 As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam 
 That falls like saddest moonlight on the hill, 
 And distant grove, when the wild world is still ? 
 Thine are the ample views, that unconfin'd 
 Stretch to the utmost walks of human kind ; 
 Thine is the spirit that with widest plan 
 Brother to Brother binds, and Man to Man !" 
 
 Rogers. The chief works of Samuel Rogers, are the Pleasures 
 
 of Memory, Human Life, and Italy. All his works are highly 
 
 finished, although they do not possess that power of imagination 
 
 which constitutes the essence of true poetry. The former of these, 
 
 the Pleasures of Memory, is equal in finish and harmony 
 
 to any production either of that or the preceding period. The 
 
 pictures drawn in this poem are fresh and natural, and in many 
 
 parts there are sentiments of the highest animation. The follow- 
 
 interesting passage will sufficiently illustrate this poem. 
 
 " On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel -door, 
 Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, 
 Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, 
 When the heart danced, and life was in its spring ; 
 Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, 
 That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. 
 
 The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, 
 Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. 
 Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade. 
 He lectured evory youth that round him played ; 
 And calmly pointing where his fathers lay, 
 Roused him to rival each, the hero of his day.
 
 Harte. 657 
 
 Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush ! while here alone 
 I search the records of each mouldering stone. 
 Guides of my life ! Instructors of my youth ! 
 Who first unveiled the hallowed form of truth ; 
 Whose every word enlightened and endeared ; 
 In age beloved, in poverty revered ; 
 In Friendship's silent register ye live, 
 Nor ask the vain memorial art can give." 
 
 There may be found also in this poem, many descriptive pas- 
 sages of the highest merit, as in the following lines. 
 
 "Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, 
 When the hushed grove has sung its parting lay ; 
 When pensive twilight, in her dusky car, 
 Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star ; 
 Aljovc, below, aerial murmurs swell. 
 From hanging wood, lirown heath, and liushy dell I 
 A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, 
 .Stealing soft music on the ear of night. 
 So oft the finer movements of the soul, 
 Tliat shun the sphere of pleasure's gay control, 
 In tlie still shades of calm seclusion rise, 
 And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies." 
 
 Harte. Walter Harte published Poems on Several Occasions, 
 
 Essay on Satire, Essay on Keason (to which Pope is said to have 
 
 contributed very considerably), Essay on Paintiiig, and The 
 
 Amaraiitli, liis last work. As a poet he is not distinguished from 
 
 other once successful but now forgotten imitators ; but there 
 
 are now and then to be found in his works pieces of great beauty 
 
 and merit. 'I'lie example here selected from his poems, is the 
 
 following address, To inv Sou/, in imitation of Chaucer. 
 
 ' l'":ii' from mankind, my wonrv soul rotiro. 
 Still follow trulii. ri>iiloiitni(Mit still dosirp. 
 Who cliiiilts on lii^ii. iit bcsl his \vc;ikiioss shows, 
 Who rolls in richos, all to Fortune owp's. 
 Road well tliyscll', mid iiKirk tliy oarly wiiys, 
 \'itiii is the Miiso, and I'.uvy wails on ])raisp. 
 
 W.iv'iini; a-i wind.-* tlio hi-oaili ol" Fortuno blows, 
 \o pow r piin turn il, and no ])rav'rs compoyjp. 
 Di'i'p in sonic hrrnn't"> solitary ci'H 
 Koposo, and F.asi'. and l'ontfMi)ilat ion dwidl. 
 Lot (,!ons('iiMicc LTuido tlii'i" in tin' days ot" nt>od ; 
 ludL'i' Will thy own. and tlifii tliv nciirhhours deed. 
 Wliat irpaV(Mi bcHtows with thanbt'ul oyi's ropoivo ; 
 I'ii-st ask tliy ln\art. and then tliro' faith l)plii'VP. 
 Slowiv wr wandiT o'or a toilsonio wav,
 
 658 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Shadows of life, and pilgrims of a dsiy, 
 
 ' Who restless in this world, receives a fall ; 
 
 ' Look up on high, and thank thy God for all ! " 
 
 West. Gilbert West made a translation oi Pindar, and wrote 
 
 some original pieces of great merit. There is an elegant ease in 
 
 his style, more particularly in his original poems, which characterize 
 
 them from other writings of the same class. The following Ode to 
 
 May is a very fine example. 
 
 "Dear Gray ! that always in my heart 
 Possessest far the better part, 
 What mean these sudden Ijlasts that rise, 
 And drive the zephyrs from the skies? 
 O join with mine thy tuneful lay, 
 And invocate the tardy May. 
 
 Come, fairest nymph I resume thy reign, 
 Bring all the graces in thy train : 
 V\'ith balmy l^reath and flow'ry tread, 
 Rise from the soft ambrosial Ijed, 
 Where in Elysian slumber bound, 
 Embow'ring myrtles veil thee round. 
 
 Awake, in all thy glories drest, 
 Recall the zephyrs from the west ; 
 Restore the sun, revive the skies, 
 At mine and Nature's call arise ! 
 Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay, 
 And misses her accustom'd Slay. 
 
 See ! all her works demand thy aid, 
 The labours of Pomona fade: 
 A plaint is heard from ev'ry tree. 
 Each budding flow'ret calls for thee ; 
 The birds forget to love and sing, 
 With storms alone the forests ring. 
 
 Come, then, with pleasure at thy side, 
 
 Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide ; 
 
 Create where'er thou turn'st thy eye, 
 
 Peace, plenty, l()^c, and harmony : 
 
 Till ev'ry being share its part, 
 
 And Heav'n and Earth l)e glad at heart." 
 
 Melmoth. This accomplished scholar is best known by his 
 
 prose works and translations of the epistles of Pliny and Cicero, 
 
 than by his poems ; although among the latter there are several 
 
 of great merit. The following lines To Sapplio, aged thirteen, 
 
 may be read as a fair example.
 
 Hammond. 659 
 
 " While yet no am'rous youtliB around thee bow, 
 Nor flattering verse conveys the faithless vow ; 
 To graver notes will Sappho's soul attend, 
 And ere she hears the lover, hear the friend ? 
 Let maids less bless'd employ their meaner arte 
 To reign proud tyrants o'er umiuniber'd hearts ; 
 May Sappho learn (for nobler triumphs born) 
 Those little conquests of her sex to scorn. 
 To form thy bosom to each gen'rous deed ; 
 To plant thy mind with ev'ry useful seed ; 
 Bo these thy arts ; nor spare tiie grateful toil, 
 Where nature's hand has hlossod the happy soil. 
 So shalt thou know, with jileasing skill to blend 
 The lovely mistress and instructive friend ; 
 So shalt thou kiiow, when unrelenting Time, 
 Shall spoil these charms yet op'ning to their prime, 
 To ease the loss of beauty's transient flow'r, 
 While Reason keeps what rapture gave before. 
 And oil? whilst wit, fair dawning spreads its ray. 
 Serenely rising to a glorious day, 
 To hail the glowing lustre oft be mine, 
 Thou early iav'rite of the sacred Nine I 
 And shall the Muse with blameless boasts pretend. 
 In youth's gay bloom that Sappho called me friend; 
 That urg'd by me, she shunn'd the dangerous way, 
 Where heedless maids in endless error stray ; 
 That scorning soon iier sex's idler art, 
 Fair praise inspir'd, and virtue warm'd her heart; 
 That fond to rcacli the distant paths of fame, 
 I taught her inl'anl genius where to aim ? 
 Thus when tlie feathered choir first tempt the sky. 
 And, all unskill'd, their feeble pinions try, 
 Th' expcrienc'd sire prescril)es the advent'rous height, 
 Guides the young wing, and })leas'd attends the flight." 
 
 Ham mond. The poein> of James Hammond are mostly elegiac, 
 and addressed in the vajjid style of pastoral sentiment, then in 
 fashion, to a Hctitious object whom he names Delia. He is said 
 to have been in love with a iMiss Uashwood, who refused him, and 
 to have lost his intellect in consequence. There are occasionally 
 to be found in his Ehi;ics parts of sinj^ular beauty and merit. The 
 Scz'cnth Eh'gy written on Delia's being in the country, where he 
 supposes she slays to sce/the harvest, may be read as one of the 
 
 best, 
 
 "Niiw l)eli;i laxatlics in wuuds tiic fiagi-ant air, 
 Dvill arc the hc.ul. tliat still in town icnuiiu, 
 Venus Ik r^L-lf attends on Delia there. 
 Ami Ciiiiid siinrt- .uuid the sylvan train.
 
 660 Mmor Poets of the Georgian Period. i 
 
 Oh, with what joy, my Delia to behold, 
 
 I'd press the spade, or wield the mighty prong, 
 
 Guide the slow plough-share through the stubborn mould 
 
 And patient goad the loitering ox along. 
 
 The scorching heats I'd carelessly despise, 
 Nor heed the blisters on my tender hand ; 
 The great Apollo wore the same disguise, 
 Like me subdued to love's supreme command. 
 
 No healing herbs could soothe their master's pain, 
 The art of physic lost, and useless lay. 
 To Peneus stream, aud Tempe's shady plain. 
 He drove his herds beneath the noon tide ray. 
 
 Oft with a bleating lamb in either arm. 
 His blushing sister saw him pace along ; 
 Oft would his voice the silent valley charm. 
 Till lowing oxen broke the tender song. 
 
 Where are his triumi^hs ? where his warlike toil? 
 Where by his dart the erected Pithon slain? 
 Where are his Delphi? his delighted isle ? 
 The God himself is grown a cottage swain. 
 
 O, Ceres ! in your golden fields no more, 
 With Harvest's cheerful pomp my fair detain, 
 Think what for lost Proserpina you bore. 
 And in a mother's anguish feel my pain. 
 
 Our wiser fathers left their fields unsown, 
 Their food was acorns, love their sole em])loy, 
 They met, they lik'd, they staid but till alone, 
 And in each valley snatch'd the honest joy. 
 
 No wakeful guard, no doors to stop desire, 
 Thrice hajjpy times ! But oh! I fondly rave. 
 Lead me to Delia all her eyes inspire, 
 I'll do I'll plough, or dig as Delia's slave." 
 
 Carter. Elizabeth Carter published a translation oi Epiclcliis, 
 besides other original poems. She was highly esteemed by John- 
 son, and her beautiful Ode to Wisdoin is given by Richardson in 
 his second novel Clarissa Harloioc. Some of the stanzas arc 
 quoted below. 
 
 " The solitary Ijiid of night 
 Thro' the pale shades now wings his flight. 
 
 And quits the time-shook tow'r. 
 Where, shelter'd from the blaze of day, 
 In philosophic gloom he lay, 
 licneath his ivy Ijow'r. 
 
 With joy 1 hear the solemn sound, 
 Which midniglU echoes waft around,
 
 Carter. 661 
 
 And sighing gales repeat : 
 Fav'rite of Pallas ! I attend, 
 And, faithful to thy summons, bend 
 
 At Wisdom's awful seat. 
 
 She loves the cool, the silent eve, 
 Where no false shows of life deceive, 
 
 Beneath the lunar ray : 
 Here folly drops each vain disguise. 
 Nor sports her gaily-coloured dyes, 
 
 As in the glare of day. 
 
 ' O Pallas ! queen of ev'ry art 
 
 Tiiat glads the sense, or mends the heart, 
 
 Blest source of purer joys ; 
 In ev'ry form of beauty bright. 
 That captivates the mental sight 
 
 With jjleasure and surprise ; 
 
 To thy unsjiottcd slirine I bow, 
 Assist thy modest sujipliant's vow. 
 
 That breathes no wild desires ; 
 But, tauglit by thy unerring rules, 
 To shun the fruitless wish of fools. 
 
 To nobler views aspires. 
 
 Not Fortune's gem. Ambition's plume 
 Nor Cytherea's fading bloom. 
 
 Be objects of my pray'r : 
 Let Av'rice, Vanity, and Pride, 
 Those glitl'ing envied toys, divide 
 
 The dull rewards of care. 
 
 To me thy better gifts impart, 
 Each moral beauty of the heart, 
 
 By studious thought refin'd ; 
 For wealth, the smiles of glad content; 
 For jiow'r, its amplest, best extent. 
 
 An empire o'er the mind. 
 
 * _ -it^ * * 
 
 Thy breath inspires the poet's song, 
 The patriot's free unbiasM tongue, 
 
 The hcrcj's L'.en'rous strife: 
 Thine are retirement's silent joys, 
 .Vnd all the sweet endearing ties 
 
 Of still domestic life. 
 No more to fabled names conlin'd, 
 
 'J'o Thee. S^|'KK^tK Al.I.-IKKI'El T MiM) 
 
 My thoughts direct their tliglit : 
 Wisdom's liiy gift, and all lier force. 
 ] loin ll;cc deriv'd, unchanging source 
 
 UriiiiclkHlu.d light. 
 O send her suif, hm- steady ra}-, 
 To regulate my doubtful way.
 
 662 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Through life's perplexing road ; 
 The mists of error to control, 
 And through its gloom direct my soul 
 
 To happiness and good ! 
 
 Beneath her clear discerning eye 
 The visionary shadows fly 
 
 Of folly's painted show ; 
 She sees, thro' every fair disguise, 
 That all, but virtue's solid joys. 
 Is vanity and woe.'" 
 
 Merrick. The chief work of James Merrick, is a volume enti- 
 tled Poems oil Sacred Subjects, amongst which there are many 
 of distinguished beauty. He also made an excellent translation 
 of the Psalms, into English verse, and translated the poem of 
 Tryphiodorus on the capture of Troy. His earliest work is a Divine 
 Essay, entitled i1/t'.fj/^?/^, which was published in his fourteenth year. 
 The following stanzas entitled The Wish, are selected from the 
 first mentioned work as an example : 
 
 " How short is life's uncertain space ! 
 
 Alas ! how quickly done ! 
 How swift the wild pi-rcarious chase! 
 And yet how difRcult the race. 
 
 How very hard to run ! 
 
 Youth stops at first its wilful ears 
 
 To wisdom's prudent voice ; 
 Till now arriv'd to riper years, 
 Expcrienc'd age, worn out with cares, 
 
 Repents its earlier choice. 
 
 What though it prospects now appear 
 
 So pleasing and relin'd ; 
 Yet groundless hope and anxious fear 
 By turn the busy moments share, 
 
 And prey upon the mind. 
 
 Since then false joys our fancy clieat 
 
 With hopes of real bliss ; 
 Ye guardian Pow'rs that rule my fate ! 
 The only wish that I create 
 
 Is all compris'd in this : 
 
 May I through life's uncertain tiih- 
 
 Be still fi-om pain exempt, 
 May all my wants be still supplied, 
 My state too low f admit of pride, 
 
 And yet above contempt. 
 
 But should your providence divine 
 A greater bliss intend ;
 
 Bruce. 663 
 
 May all those blessings you design 
 (If e'er those blessings should be mine) 
 Be centrod in u friend." 
 
 Bruce. Michael Bruce, a promising young .Scotch poet, who 
 
 (lied at the early age of twenty one, was the writer of an Eiej^y on 
 
 Spring, a descriptive poem entitled Lochlei'en, and the Last Day. 
 
 These form the chief memorials of a genius which gave promise 
 
 of high distinction. His style is immature, but this may easily be 
 
 understood by the early age at which he commenced to write ; and 
 
 there are also several traces of his having borrowed from other poets. 
 
 This latter circumstance is strikingly seen in the last stanza of the 
 
 former poem, when compared with the following lines of Milton : 
 
 " With the year 
 Seasons return ; but not to mc returns 
 Day or the sweet ap[)roach of even or morn." &e, 
 
 The above mentioned Elegy on Spring, will be sufficient to amply 
 
 illustrate both the genius and style of this writer. 
 
 " ' Tis past ; the iron north lia.s silent his rage ; 
 Stern winter vmw resigns tlie length'ning day ; 
 The stormy bowlings of the winds assuage, 
 And warm o'er ether western hree/es play. 
 
 Far to the nortli grim winter draws his train, 
 To his own clime, to Zeml)la's frozen shore ; 
 
 Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign ; 
 
 Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. 
 
 fyooscd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground, 
 Again puts on her robe of clicerful green 
 
 Again puts forth lier llowers ; and all around, 
 Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. 
 
 Heboid I the trees new deck iheir withered boughs 
 
 Their ami^Ie leaves, the hospitable plane, 
 The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose ; 
 
 The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. 
 
 The lily of the vale, of flowers the fjueen, 
 
 I'uts on the robe she nuitlier sewed nor spun ; 
 
 The birils on gi-ound, or on tlio l)ranches green, 
 Hop to ami fro' and glitter in the sun. 
 
 Soon as ocr eastern bills the morning peers, 
 I-"rom lu.r low nest the tufted lark u|)->prings 
 
 Anil, rbicifiil ringing, up the air she >lcci-; ; 
 
 Still bi;;li she mounts, still biud and sweet she sings. 
 
 On the i;rt;i>n fui/e. clothcil o'er with goMen Moonis, 
 That till the air with frat;rance all around,
 
 664 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, 
 While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, 
 Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road. 
 Along the lovely paths of spring to rove, 
 And follow nature up to nature's God. 
 
 Thus Zoroaster studied nature's laws ; 
 
 Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind ; 
 Thus heaven-taught Plato traced tli' Almighty cause. 
 
 And left the wond'ring multitude behind. 
 
 Thus Ashley gathered academic bays ; 
 
 Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, 
 Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, 
 
 And bear their poet's name from pole to pole, 
 
 Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn ; 
 
 My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn ; 
 Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn. 
 
 And gathered health from all the gales of morn. 
 
 Now, spring returns : but not to me returns 
 The vernal joy my better years have known ; 
 
 Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, 
 And all the joys of life with health are flown." 
 
 Baillie. Joanna Baillie was the writer of a " Series of Plays," 
 amongst which her tragedy De Montfort is considered the finest. 
 These plays, which appeared in separate volumes, consisted partly 
 of tragedies and partly of comedies, one of each class being directed 
 to the development of a particular passion, such as love, ambition, 
 revenge, &c. The characteristic merit of her writing is a mascu- 
 line style of thought and diction, over which she has shown herself 
 a complete mistress. Her tragedies have a grasp of mind and 
 firmness of hand that are rarely to be seen in the writings of a 
 female ; in the words of Byron, " woman (saving Joanna Baillie) 
 cannot write tragedy." Her writings exhibit not only the qualities 
 of a poet, but the rarer qualities of a true dramatist, A modern 
 critic has observed of her writings, "However different and inferior 
 in degree, her mind resembles Shakespeare's in kind : she plans 
 her characters deliberately : she executes them with undeviating 
 consistency ; her pictures of passion are all leavened and pene- 
 trated by general and elevated reflection." There is also a vehement 
 eloquence running through her works, and a perpetual flow of
 
 Baillie. 665 
 
 exalted thought and feeling, with now and then real bursts of senti- 
 ment. Many of her female characters are powerfully and tenderly 
 drawn, and form of themselves a chief feature of her plays : that 
 of Valeria for example in the tragedy of Consiantitie Paleologus; 
 seen in the following passage. 
 
 Valeria. " Forbear all words, and follow mc no more, 
 
 I now am free to wander where I list ; 
 
 To howl i' the desert with the midnight wind, 
 
 And fearless be amidst all fearful things. 
 
 The storm has l)een with me, and I am left, 
 
 Torn and uprooted, and laid in the dust, 
 
 With those whom after-blasts rend not again, 
 
 I am in the dark gulf where no light is. 
 
 I am on the deep beds of sunken floods, 
 
 Whose swoln and welt'ring billows rise no more 
 
 To bear the tossed wreck back to the strand. 
 Lucia. O, say not so! heav'n doth in its good time 
 
 Send consolation to the sharpest woe. 
 
 It still in kindness sends to the tried soul 
 
 It's keenest suffrings. So say holy men; 
 
 And therein good meTi trust. 
 Valeria. I hear, I hear thee ! in mine ear thy voice 
 
 Sounds like the fecl^lc night fly's humming noise 
 
 To him, who in tlie warfare of vcx'd sleep, 
 
 Strives with the phantoms of his inward world. 
 
 Yes, there be comfort when the sun is dark, 
 
 And time hath run his course, and the still'd sleepers 
 
 Lift up their heads at the tremendous crash 
 
 Of breaking worlds, I know all this. But here. 
 
 Upon this living earth, what is there foimd ? 
 
 It is a place of groans and hopeless woe. 
 
 Let me then tear my hair and wring my hands. 
 And raise my voice of anguish and despair, 
 
 This is my portion now, all else is gone. 
 Liitia.- -Nay, think not virtuous innocence forsaken: 
 
 I'ut in high lioav'n thy trust, it will sustain thee, 
 Valeria. Ah ! I did tliiiik when virtue bravely stood, 
 
 Fronting its valiant breast to the fierce onset. 
 
 01' ^V()rthless [lowci-. that it lull sur(>ly stood : 
 
 That ev ry spii-iluai and righteous power 
 
 V\'as on its side ; and in this faith, oftinies, 
 
 Mcthouglii 1 {'"iild into tlic funiaoi' moutii 
 
 Have thrust my hand, and gra^p(M! the molten llames. 
 
 "\'et it tVll on his lioad: llial noltle head 
 
 L'pon wlios.' UKUily irracel'nhii'ss was fix'd, 
 
 'rht> ^;azc i>f cv'ry cyi'. 
 
 Oh I on his lih'ral iVoiit there ln'ani'd a look, 
 
 Unto the which idl good and L'en'nnis hoarts
 
 666 Minor Poets of the Georgiati Period. 
 
 Answer return'd. It was a gentle head,^ 
 Bending in pleasant kindness to all ; 
 So that the timid, who approach'd him trembling, 
 With cheer'd and vaunting steps retir'd again. 
 It was a crowned head, yet was it left 
 Expos'd and fenceless in the hour of danger : 
 What should have been his safety was his bane. 
 Away poor mock'ry of a wretched state ! 
 
 ( Tearing the regal oi-naments from her 
 neck and scattering tliem about) 
 Be ye strew'd to the winds ! But for this let 
 We had been blest ; for he as truly loved, 
 In simplest tenderness, as the poor hind, 
 Who takes his humble house-mate by the hand, 
 And says, ' this is my all.' Off, cursed band ! 
 Which round our happiness hath been entwin'd, 
 Like to a strangling cord : upon the earth 
 Be thou defaced and trampled I " 
 
 Grahame. The principal works of this writer, are a dramatic 
 
 poem called Mary Queen of Scotland^ Sabbath^ and Sabbath Walks, 
 
 all written in blank verse. Besides these there are a number of minor 
 
 poems chiefly of a religious character. His style may be compared 
 
 to that of Cowper, though he does not possess the force and depth 
 
 of poetic passion of the latter writer. There is nothing vigorous 
 
 or imaginative in Grahame's poetry ; but it abounds nevertheless in 
 
 passages of the tenderest and most devout feeling, and the most 
 
 animated and flowing descriptions, The following example is 
 
 extracted from The Sabbath Walks ; 
 
 "Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms 
 My heart : pleasant the cool beneath these elms, 
 That throw across the stream a moveless shade. 
 Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks : 
 How peaceful every sound 1 the ring-dove's plaint, 
 Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove, 
 While every other woodland lay is mule, 
 Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest, 
 And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear, 
 The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp, the Ijuzz, 
 Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled laee, 
 That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away, 
 The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal, 
 Scared from the shallows by my passing tread. 
 Dimpling the water glides, with here and there 
 A glossy lly, skimming in circlets gay 
 The treacherous surface, while tlie quick-eyed trout 
 Watches his time to spring ; or, from aljove.
 
 Bloomfield. 667 
 
 
 
 Some feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the boughs, 
 Darts from her perch, and to her jilumeless brood 
 Bears off the prize : Sad emblem of man's lot ! 
 He, giddy insect, from liis native leaf, 
 (Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd) 
 Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, 
 Forgetful of his origin, and, worse, 
 Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream ; 
 And if from hostile vigilence he 'scape, 
 Buoyant he flutters but a little while, 
 Mistakes the inverted image of the sky 
 For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. 
 
 Now, let me trace the stream up to its source 
 Among the hills ; its runnel by degrees 
 Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 
 Closer and closer still the banks approach, 
 Tangled so thick with pleaching braml)]e-shoots. 
 With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, 
 That, f;iin to quit the dingle, glad I mount 
 Into the open air : grateful the breeze 
 That fans my throbbing temples ! smiles the plain 
 Spread wide below : how sweet the placid view ! 
 I)ut oh ! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought, 
 That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons 
 Of toil, partake this day the common joy 
 Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale. 
 Of Ijreathing in the silence of tlie woods, 
 And blessing Ilim, who gave the Salibath day. 
 Yes, my heart flutters with a freer tlirob, 
 To think that now the townsman wanders forth 
 Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 
 The coolness of the day's decline : to see 
 His children sport around, and simjily pull 
 The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon. 
 Which proudly in his l)reast they smiling fix." 
 
 Bloomfield. Robert Bloomfkhl is chiefly known by his poem 
 The Farmer s Boy, the merit of which lays in the strikingly true 
 and touching delineation of rustic life which it contains. The 
 language botli of this and of his other poems is choice, and the 
 rhythm correct ; but there is nothing of power and passion in his 
 writings. Some of the parts descriptive of tlie various seasons are 
 written with mucli truth and beauty ; as in the following passage, 
 
 STKIXG. 
 
 "Fled now the sullen murnuirs of the north, 
 The splendid raiment of the spring peejis forth ; 
 Her universal green, and the clear sky,
 
 668 Minor Poets of the Georgia 7/ Period. 
 
 Delight still more and more the gazing eye. 
 
 Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, 
 
 Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along 
 
 The mellow'd soil ; imbibing fairer hues, 
 
 Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews ; 
 
 That summon from their sheds the slumb'ring plows, 
 
 While health impregnates every breeze that blows." 
 
 Another beautiful passage in this poem is that with which it 
 
 closes describing the farmer's joy at the prospect of returning 
 
 Spring. 
 
 " Sunshine, Health, and Joy, 
 
 Play round, and cheer the elevated boy I 
 'Another Spring ! ' his heart exulting cries ; 
 'Another Year ! with promis'd blessings rise I 
 Eternal Power ! from whom those blessings flow, 
 Teach me still more to wonder, more to know : 
 Seed-time and Harvest let me see again ; 
 Wander the leaf-strewn wood, the frozen ])lain : 
 Let the first flower, corn-waving field, plain, tree, 
 Here round my home, still lift my soul to thee : 
 And let me ever, midst thy bounties, raise 
 An humble note of thankfulness and praise .' "'" 
 
 HURDIS. James Hurdis was the writer of a poem in blank verse, 
 
 entitled The Village Curate ; a tragedy called Sir Thofuas More, 
 
 and other poetical works. He was also the author of an important 
 
 work, Rernarlcs on the Arrangements of the Plays of Shakespeare, 
 
 a valuable addition to the numerous text-books upon that poet. 
 
 There are many choice passages in his works ; although in his 
 
 tragedy, there is wanting that bold delineation of character which 
 
 forms a distinguishing feature of dramatic writing. Amongst his 
 
 miscellaneous pieces, the two poems Addresses to the Afoo?i 
 
 deserve mentioning. The following passage is selected from 
 
 the tragedy of Sir Thomas More and possesses all the truth of a 
 
 circumstantial reflection of its kind. 
 
 "Such is my home a gloomy tenement, 
 And solitary as the peasant's hut 
 Upon the barren mountain. Not a soul 
 Deigns me a visit. All my company 
 Are toiling spiders, who consume the day 
 In spreading nets to catch the harmless fly. 
 An emblem of myself. I*\)r what am I, 
 But a pnor, helpless, weaiher-bealcn insect,
 
 Hogg. 669 
 
 That sought for shelter in the lowly shed, 
 
 And found within the spider tyranny? 
 
 Sometimes a mouse attends me for my crumbs. 
 
 I bid him welcome, l)ut the whisker'd fool, 
 
 Ts still suspicious tiiat I mean him wrong. 
 
 TTow kind was nature, when she made the 1 rule, 
 
 To make him cautious how he trusted man ! 
 
 For such a tyrant is lie, that he whets 
 
 The murd'rous dagger often for himself, 
 
 And ever for his brother ; sparing none, 
 
 His neighbour, or his kinsman, or his friend. 
 
 'Tis all his business to destroy himself, 
 
 And all his sport to trample on the brute. 
 
 Track him in all his ways, in war, in peace, 
 
 Seeking renown upon the battle's edge. 
 
 Amusements in the closet or the field, 
 
 His footsteps are all marked with savage bloodshed. 
 
 Philosophy and Faith have each their sword. 
 
 And murder, one for wisdom, one for truth. 
 
 The paths of tdory are the paths of blood ; 
 
 And what arc heroes and aspiring kings 
 
 lUit butchers? Has not cv'ry prince his knife, 
 
 His slaughter-house, and victim? What am I, 
 
 P)Ut a poor lamb selected from the flock, 
 
 To be the next that bleeds, where many a lamb, 
 
 As innocent and guiltless as myself, 
 
 Has bled before me ? On this floor perhaps 
 
 The persecuted Harry breath'd his last 
 
 Under the sword of Gloster. Clarence here 
 
 Drank his last draught of Malmsey, and his son, 
 
 Poor hapless boy, jiia'd infancy away ; 
 
 All his acciuaintance, sorrow and himself; 
 
 And all the world he knew, this little room, 
 
 Yes, here he sat, and long"d for liberty, 
 
 Which never found him ; ending his sad youth 
 
 Under the tyrant's axe. And here perhaps 
 
 Assassination, at the dead of night. 
 
 With silent foot.stei), and extended arm. 
 
 Feeling her way to the remember'd becl, 
 
 Found the two breathing princes fast asleep, 
 
 And did her bloody work without remorse. 
 
 O horrible to think of ! Sucli is man. 
 
 No beast, whose appetite is ever blood, 
 
 Wants mercy more. ' 
 
 Hogg. James Hogg, commonly called the "Ettrick Shepherd," 
 so named from his being a native of the secluded district of Ettrick 
 in .Scotland, whore he kept the cattle and sheep, was the writer of 
 a bcantifid pocn: cniitlcd Tlw (liircns H'^?/-,', besides a number of
 
 670 Minor Poets of the Georgian^ Pernod. 
 
 other poetical works. Hogg had little or no education, but possessed 
 great natural gifts, and may be considered as another real instance 
 of the sentence ^<7i?/rt: nascitur nan fit, s.?, \\\(txQ. are few poets who 
 so impress us with the idea of direct inspiration as Hogg. The 
 following beautiful lines To the Skylark, are selected from his 
 poetical effusions. 
 
 "Bird of the wilderness, 
 
 Blithsome and cumberless, 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling place 
 Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 Wild is thy lay and loud, 
 
 Far in the downy cloud, 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim. 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes, 
 
 Low in the heather blooms, 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be. 
 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place 
 Oh ! to abide in the desert with thee ! " 
 
 Leyden. John Leyden was the writer of miscellaneous poems, 
 
 of which the most remarkable are his ballads of the Kout of Keel- 
 
 dar and The Mermaid of Colottsay, published by his friend Sir 
 
 Walter Scott in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, who has 
 
 also spoken very highly of his poetry. The following sonnet, 
 
 Noontide may be read as a fair specimen of his talent. 
 
 "Beneath a shiv'ring canopy reclin'd, 
 Of aspen leaves that wave without a wind, 
 I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir 
 The spiry cones that tremble on the fir. 
 Or wander 'mid the dark green fields of broom, 
 When peers in scattered tufts the yeliow bloom : 
 Or trace the path with tangling furze o'errun, 
 When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun. 
 And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
 
 Smith. 671 
 
 Pipe giddily along the glowing hill: 
 
 Sweet grashopper, which lov'st at noon to lie 
 
 Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye, 
 
 To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest, 
 
 Unseen thy form and undisturh'd thy rest ; 
 
 Oft have I, listening, mus'd the sultry day. 
 
 And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say, 
 
 When nuugiit was heard along the hlossom'd lea, 
 
 To join thy music, save the listless bee." 
 
 Smith. James Smith is best known in connection with his 
 brother Horace. His writings consist in clever parodies and criti- 
 cisms in the Picnic, London Review, and Monthly Mifror. It 
 was in the Monthly Mirror, that the imitations published as the 
 Rejected Addresses appeared, which were written by both James 
 and Horace. This work was one of the most successful and popu- 
 lar that has ever appeared. James Smith was the writer of the 
 imitations of Wordsworth, Cobbett, Southey, Coleridge, and Lamb ; 
 and Horace Smith those of Scott, Moore, Monk, Lewis, Fitzgerald, 
 and Dr. Johnson. This poet was a less voluminous writer than his 
 brother, and beyond the above mentioned imitations wrote little 
 else worth remarking upon. The following passage from the poem 
 entitled The Rebuilding, in imitation of the Kehania of Southey, 
 has been selected from the Rejected Addresses as an example of 
 James Smith's work. 
 
 "Michiight, yet not a nose 
 From Towcr-hill to Piccadilly snored.' 
 
 Midnight, yet not a nose 
 
 From Indra drew tlie essence of repose! 
 
 Sec witli wlial crimson fur}', 
 
 ]!y In(h-a fann'd, the gud offire a.-ccnds the walls 
 
 of Drury ; 
 
 The tops ofliouscs, l)hic with lead, 
 
 IJend hcncalh tiie landlord's tread. 
 
 Master and prentice, seising man and loid, 
 
 Naiiur and Tailor, 
 
 Gra/icr and Ura/icr, 
 
 Tlirt/ strct't-^ aiiil alleys pom'd, 
 
 All, all abroad, lo ga/.r, 
 
 And wonder at llic Maze. 
 Tliii-k calf, fat fo..!, an.l slim knee. 
 M' 'iiiiUd (111 roof and chiiniu}-, 
 The luiglil) ro.i>l the mighty steu
 
 672 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period, 
 
 To see; 
 As if the dismal view 
 Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. 
 
 Vainly, all radiant Surya- sire of Phaeton, 
 
 (By Greeks called Apollo) 
 
 Hollow 
 
 Sounds from thy harp proceed ; 
 
 Combustible as reed, 
 
 The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs : 
 
 From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs, 
 
 Thou tumblest, 
 
 Humblest, 
 
 Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high : 
 
 While, by thy somerset excited, fly 
 
 Ten million, 
 
 Billion 
 
 Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky. 
 
 Now come the men of fire to quench the fires. 
 To Russel Street see Globe and Atlas run ; 
 Hope gallops first, and second Sun ; 
 On flying heel. 
 See Hand in Hand 
 O'ertake the band ; 
 View with what glowing wheel 
 He nicks 
 Phoenix; 
 While Albion scampers from Bridge-street, Blackfriars, 
 
 Drury Lane ! Drury Lane ! 
 
 Drury Lane ! Drury Lane ! 
 
 They shout and they bellow again and again. 
 
 All, all in vain ! 
 
 Water turns steam ; 
 
 Each blazing beam 
 
 Hisses defiance to the eddying spout. 
 
 It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out 
 
 Drury Lane. Drury Lane ! " 
 
 Smith. Horace Smith, brother of the former poet, wrote more 
 
 largely, and besides his share \\\\\\& Rejected Addrcsses^LQ^^xo^wc^^ 
 
 several other poems and verses, amongst which his Address to the 
 
 Muiiiviy, may be mentioned as posessing singular merit. The 
 
 following, A Tale of Drury Lane, in imitation of Scott, is one from 
 
 amongst those written by this writer in the above work. 
 
 THK Mc;in. 
 
 " On fair Augusta's towers and trees 
 Flitted the silent midnight breeze. 
 Curling the foliage as it past,
 
 Tighe. 673 
 
 Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast 
 
 A spangled light like dancing spray, 
 
 Then reassum'd its still array : 
 
 When as night's lamp unclouded hung, 
 
 And down its full effulgence flung, 
 
 It shed such soft and balmy power, 
 
 That cot and castle, hall and bower, 
 
 And spire and dome, and turret height, 
 
 Appcar'd to slumber in the light. 
 
 From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall. 
 
 To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, 
 
 From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, 
 
 To Redriff, Shadwell, Horselydown, 
 
 No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, 
 
 But all in deepest sleep reposed. 
 
 They might have thought, who gazed around, 
 
 Amid a silence so profound 
 
 It made the senses thrill. 
 That 'twas no place inhabited, 
 But some vast city of the dead, 
 
 All was so hushed and still." 
 
 THE BURNING. 
 
 " As chaos which, by heavenly doom, 
 Had slept in everlasting gloom. 
 Started with terror and surprise, 
 VVhcn light first flashed upon her eyes : 
 So London's sons in nightcap woke. 
 
 In bedgown woke her dames. 
 For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, 
 And twice ten hundred voices spoke, 
 
 'The Playhouse is in flames.' 
 And lo! where Catherine Street extends, 
 A fiery tale its lustre lends 
 
 To every window-pane : 
 Blushes eacli s|x)ut in Martlet Court, 
 And l>arl)ican, moth eaten fort, 
 And Covent Garden kennels sport, 
 
 A bright ensanguiird drain; 
 .Mcux's new brew-house shows the light 
 Rowland Iliirs chapel, and the height 
 
 Wlicre patent shot they sell : 
 The Tennis CViurl, sd fair and tall. 
 Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, 
 The ticket ])orters' house of call, 
 Old Pedlani, close by London Walk 
 Wright's slnimii and oyster shop withal, 
 'And Riehanlson's Ifnlel." 
 
 TroiiE, Mrs, Mary Tighe was tlic authoress oi Psyc/ir, a poem 
 
 founded on the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apulcius, and several
 
 674 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 other minor poems of peculiar elegance and delicacy in style and 
 
 sentiment. The former poem is beautifully written, and exhibits 
 
 much imagination and graceful fancy. The following verses On 
 
 receiving a Branch of Mezereon, luhich flowered at Woodstock, is 
 
 one of the sweetest of her minor poems, and is said to have been 
 
 the last poem she ever composed; and she died at the place where 
 
 it was written. 
 
 ' ' Odours of spring, my sense ye charm 
 With fragrance premature ; 
 And, mid these days of dark alarm, 
 
 Almost to hope allure. 
 Methinks with purpose soft ye come 
 
 To tell of brighter hours, 
 Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom 
 Her sunny gales and showers. 
 
 Alas ! for me shall May in vain 
 , The powers of life restore ; 
 
 These eyes that weep and watch in pain, 
 
 Shall see her charms no more. 
 No, no, this anguish cannot last ! 
 
 Beloved friends, adieu ! 
 The bitterness of death were past. 
 
 Could I resign but you. 
 
 But oh ! in every mortal pang 
 
 That rends my soul from life. 
 That soul, which seems on you to hang 
 
 Through each convulsive strife, 
 Even now, with agonizing grasp 
 
 Of terror and regret. 
 To all in life its love would clasp 
 
 Things close and closer yet. 
 
 * Yet why, immortal, vital spark ! 
 
 Thus mortally opprest ? 
 Look up, my soul, through prospects dark, 
 
 And bid thy terrors rest ; 
 Forget, forego thy earthy part, 
 
 Thine heavenly being trust : 
 Ah ! vain attempt ! my coward heart 
 
 Still shuddering clings to dust. 
 
 O ye ! who soothe the pangs of death 
 
 With love's own patient care. 
 Still, still retain this fleeting breath. 
 
 Still pour the fervent prayer: 
 And ye, whose smile must greet my eye 
 
 No more, nor voice my car, 
 Who breathe for me the tender sigh, 
 
 And shed the pitying tear,
 
 Wilson. Tennant, 675 
 
 Whose kindness (though far far removed) 
 
 My grateful tlioughts perceive, 
 Pride of my life, esteem'd, beloved, 
 
 My last sad claim receive ! 
 Oh ! do not quite your friend forget, 
 
 Forget alone her faults ; 
 And speak of her with fond regret 
 
 Who asks your lingering thoughts." 
 
 Wilson. John Wilson obtained some celebrity as a poet. His 
 mostpopularpoemis that entitled TV^^/j/t'^y/^rt/wi', a meditative and 
 ideal poem, greatly resembling in style that of Wordsworth. His 
 works manifest him to have been an ardent lover of nature, and to 
 have possessed the purest and most affectionate feelings ; and there 
 is a soothing sweetness in his writings, that gives them an irresisti- 
 ble charm. The following passage Night at Sea, is selected from 
 his miscellaneous poems. 
 
 "It is the midnight hour ; the beauteous sea, 
 
 Calm as the cloudless heaven, tlie heaven discloses, 
 While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
 Far down within the watery sky reposes 
 As if the ocean's heart were stirr'tl 
 With inward life, a sound is heard, 
 
 Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep 
 ' Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, 
 That lies like a garment floating fair 
 
 Above the hapjiy deep. 
 The sea, I ween, cannot Ijc fann'd 
 By evening freshness from tlie land, 
 
 For tlie land is far away ; 
 But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze 
 In the centre of the loneliest seas 
 Should ever sport and play. 
 
 The miglity moon, she sits above, 
 Encircleil with a zone of love, 
 A zone of tlim and tender light, 
 That makes her wakeful eye more bright : 
 She seems to sliine witli a sunny ray. 
 And the niglU looks like a melluw'd day ! 
 Tlie gracious mistress of the main 
 Ilatli now an undisturbed reif,'n, 
 And from her silent throne looks down, 
 As upon cliildrcn oflier o\sn. 
 On tlie waves, tliat lend their gentle breast 
 In gladness for lier eoucli oTn.-; I " 
 
 TKN:,ANr.- Williaiii i'cnnant was the wi iter of .i comic pocni 
 
 called A>istt'y Fair, cliicliy of a descriptive character, giving a
 
 676 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 series of rustic festivals and games supposed to take place in the 
 sixteenth century. It is written in the ottava rima stanza of the 
 Italians, and it is remarkable for the profusion and variety of images 
 and groups which it thrusts upon the fancy, relieved often by sud- 
 den outburstings of the richest poetical imagination. The following 
 are some of the stanzas from this poem. 
 
 "Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland 
 
 The horny-knuckled kilted Highlandman ; 
 From whereupon the i^ocky Caithness strand, 
 
 Breaks the long wave that at the pole began ; 
 And where Lockfyne from her prolific sand 
 
 Her herrings gives to feed each bord'ring clan, 
 Arrive the brogue-shod men of gen'rous eye, 
 Plaided, and breechless all, with Edom's hairy thigh. 
 And ev'ry husbandman, round Largo-law, 
 
 Hath scrap'd his huge-wheeled dung-cart fair and clean, 
 Wherein, on sacks stufl'ed full of oaten straw, 
 
 Sits the good wife, Tarn, Katey, Jock, and Jean ; 
 In flowers and ribands drest, the horses draw 
 
 Stoutly their creaking cumbersome machine, 
 As, on his cart-head, sits the goodman proud, 
 And cheerly cracks his whip, and whistles clear and loud. 
 And from her coal-pits Dysart vomits forth. 
 
 Her subterranean men of colour dun, 
 Poor human mouldwarps ! doomed to scrape in earth, 
 
 Cimmerian people, strangers to the sun ; 
 Gloomy as soot, with faces grim and swarth, 
 
 They march, most sourly leering everyone. 
 
 * * * * 
 Next, from the well-air'd ancient town of Crail, 
 
 Go out her craftsmen with tumultuous din, 
 Her wine-bleached fishers, sturdy-limbed and hale. 
 
 Her in-kneed tailors, garrulous and thin ; 
 And some are flushed with horn of pithy ale, 
 
 And some are fierce with dreams of smuggled gin. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And market maids, and aproned wives, that bring 
 
 Their gingerbread in baskets to the Fair ; 
 And cadgers with their creels tlial hang by string 
 
 From their lean horse ribs, rubbing ofl the hair ; 
 And crooked-legged-cripples that on crutches swing 
 
 Tlieir shabby persons with a noble air." 
 
 Grainger, James Grainger was the writer of a poem called 
 the Sugar Cane, a work \\ hich was severely dealt with by the critics, 
 Notwithstanding this defective production, however; there may be
 
 Grainger. 677 
 
 found several excellent specimens of poetry amongst his miscella- 
 neous pieces ; with others the following ballad, entitled Bryan 
 and Pcreene. 
 
 "The north east wind did briskly blow, 
 The ship was safely moor'd, 
 Young l?ryan tlioiight the boat's crew slow, 
 And 80 leapt overboard. 
 
 Perocne, the pride of Indian dames, 
 
 His heart did long enthral. 
 And whoso his impatience blames, 
 
 I wot ne'er loved at all. 
 
 A long, long year, one month and day, 
 
 He dwelt on English land. 
 Nor once in thought would ever stray, 
 
 Tho' ladies sougbt his hand. 
 
 For IJryan he was tall and strong. 
 
 Right blithsome roUd his een. 
 Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung. 
 
 He scant had twenty seen. 
 
 But who the countless charms can draw. 
 
 That grac'd his mistress true? 
 Sucli charms the old world never saw, 
 
 Nor oft I ween the new. 
 
 Her raven hair plays round her neck 
 
 Like tendrils of the vine ; 
 Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck. 
 
 Her eyes like diamonds shine. 
 
 Soon as his well-known ship was spied, 
 
 She cast her weeds away. 
 And to the palmy shore she hied. 
 
 All ill her best array. 
 
 In sea-green silk so neatly clad. 
 
 She tliere impatient stood. 
 The crow with wonder saw the lad, 
 
 Kepel the foaming Hood. 
 
 Her hands a handkerchief display ci, 
 
 Which he at partii g gave, 
 Well pleased the token he survey 'd, 
 
 And manlier beat the wave. 
 
 Her fair companions one and all, 
 
 Kejoiciiig crowd the strand ; 
 For nnw hei- Inver swam in call, 
 
 And almobl toucli'd the lantl. 
 
 'I'lieii lliro' the wliitc surf did she haste 
 To clasp her lovely swain ;
 
 678 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 When ah ! a shark bit thro' his waist, 
 His heart's blood cly'd the main ! 
 
 He shriek'd ! he half sprung from the wave, 
 
 Streaming with purple gore, 
 And soon it found a living grave, 
 
 And ah ! was seen no more. 
 
 Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray. 
 
 Fetch water from the spring 
 She falls, she falls, she dies away. 
 
 And soon her knell they ring. 
 
 Now each May morning round her tomb 
 
 Ye fair, fresh flow'rets strew 
 So may your lovers 'scape his doom. 
 
 Her hapless fate 'scape you." 
 
 Hart. This writer lived about the middle of the last century, and 
 wrote a volume of Hymns, many of which have been reprinted, 
 and some of which are of a most beautiful character. The follow- 
 ing hymn Gethsemafie, will stand unequalled in this species of 
 writing. , 
 
 GETHSEMANE. 
 
 "Jesus, while he dwelt below. 
 As divine historians say, 
 To a place would often go ; 
 Near to Kedron's brook it lay ; 
 In this place lie loved to be ; 
 And 'twas named Gethsemane. 
 
 'Twas a garden, as we read. 
 At the foot of Olivet, 
 Low and proper to be made 
 The Redeemer's lone retreat : 
 When from noise he would be free, 
 Then he sought Gethsemane. 
 
 Full of love to man's lost race. 
 On the conflict much He thought ; 
 This He knew the destin'd place, 
 And he loved the sacred spot; 
 Therefore Jesus chose to be 
 Often in Gethsemane. 
 
 Came at length the dreadful night ; 
 Vengeance, with its iron rod, 
 Stood, and with collected might, 
 Bruised the harmless Lamb of God ; 
 See, my soul, thy Saviour see. 
 Prostrate in Gethsemane.
 
 Croly. 679 
 
 View Him in that Olive-press, 
 
 Wrung with anguish, whelm'd with blood ; 
 
 Hear II im j:>ray in his distress. 
 
 With strong cries and tears, to God : 
 
 Then reflect what sin must be, 
 
 Gazing on Gethsemane. 
 
 Gloomy garden, on thy beds, 
 Wash'd by Kedron's water-pool. 
 Grow most rank and bitter weeds ; 
 Think on these, my soul, my soul ! 
 VV^ouldst thou sin's dominion flee. 
 Call to mind Gethsemane. 
 
 Eden, from each flowery bed, 
 
 Did for man short sweetness breathe. 
 
 Soon, by Satan's counsel led, 
 
 Man wrought sin, and sin wrought death; 
 
 But of life, the healing tree 
 
 Grows in rich Gethsemane. 
 
 Hither, Lord, Thou didst resort, 
 Oft times with thy little train ; 
 Here would'st keep thy private court : 
 Oh ! confer that grace again: 
 Lord, resort with worthless me. 
 Oft times to Gethsemane. 
 
 True, I can't deserve to share 
 In a favour so divine ; 
 But since sin first fix'd Thee there. 
 None have greater sins than mine; 
 And to this my woeful plea, 
 Witness thou, Gethsemane ! 
 
 Sins against a holy God, 
 
 Sins against his righteous laws, 
 
 Sins against i)is love, his blood, 
 
 Sins against his name and cause, 
 
 Sins immense as is the sea, 
 
 Hide me, O Gethsemane ! 
 
 Saviour all the stone remove 
 From my flinty, frozen heart ; 
 Thaw it with the Ijcams of love, 
 Pierce it with thy mercy's dnrt : 
 Wound the heart that wounded Thee ; 
 Break it in Gethsemane." 
 
 CR(jr.Y. This writer was tlie author of several poems, of which 
 the chief are, Pan's in 1S13, Anocl of the World, Cataliiu-^ and 
 Tlie Modcni OrlauJo. He possessed a fertile inia^nnation and 
 .gorgeous style, and at times passages of i^rcat beauty occur. The
 
 680 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 following beautiful stanzas are selected from the second part of 
 
 the first mentioned poem. 
 
 "Night's wing is on the east the clouds repose 
 Like weary armies of the firmament, 
 Encamp'd beneath their vanes of pearl and rose ; 
 Till the wind's sudden trumpet through them sent, 
 Shakes their pavilions, and their pomps are blent 
 In rich confusion. Now the air is fill'd 
 With thousand odours, sigh'd by blossoms bent 
 In closing beauty, where the dew distill'd 
 From Evening's airy urns, their purple lips has chill'd. 
 
 How subtle Nature mingles in the heart 
 The past, the future, in this lovely time ! 
 How home and heaven together on us start ! 
 England ! 'tis now thy autumn-sky sublime 
 Reminds us of the parted spirits clime, 
 The hamlet clock strikes solemn as a knell, 
 The breezy sounds that from the forest swim. 
 The heavy harvest-team's returning bell. 
 The gleaner's homeward call, seem life's sad, sweet farewell. 
 
 But thousands, tens of thousands in thy fields 
 Are counting every shade that dims this hour, 
 With frequent sunward look till day-light yields. 
 And each can turn him to the humble bower, 
 Where his own hand has planted every flower ; 
 Time out of mind his father's quiet home ; 
 Where waits him one, whose virtue was her dower, 
 Cheering her infants, as the deepening gloom, 
 Shed from the poplars, tells, he sure and soon will come. 
 
 He comes ; the moon has lit him home at last. 
 And he has thrown his harvest hook away. 
 And kiss'd the nut-brown babes that round him haste, 
 Each with the little wonder of its day. 
 The lowly meal is spread, the moon-beams play 
 Thro' panes that bushy rose and wall -flower veil. 
 And soon to make them music, on her spray. 
 Her wonted, neighbour spray, the nightingale 
 Pours on the holy hour her thrilling, endless tale." 
 
 Elliot. The chief poems of Ebenezer Elliot relate to politi- 
 cal subjects; the best known of which are the Corn Law Rhymes. 
 Though somewhat harsh, his poems are vigorous and fervent, and 
 were of sufficient merit to have claimed the recognition of such 
 men as Southey, Wilson and Carlyle. The lines To the Bramble 
 Flower, may be read as one of the best examples of his miscella- 
 neous poems.
 
 Browne. 681 
 
 "Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 
 
 Wild bramble of the brake ! 
 So put thou forth thy small white rose ; 
 
 I love it for his sake. 
 Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
 
 O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
 Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 
 
 Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
 For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 
 
 That cannot feel how fair, 
 Amid all beauty beautiful. 
 
 Thy tender blossoms are ! 
 How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 
 
 How rich thy branchy stem ! 
 How soft thy voice when woods are still. 
 
 And thou sing'st hymns to tbem ; 
 While silent showers are falling slow. 
 
 And 'mid the general hush, 
 A sweet air lifts the little bough. 
 
 Lone whisp'ring through the bush ! 
 The primrose to the grave is gone ; 
 
 The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
 The violet l)y the moss'd gray stone 
 
 Hath laid her weary head ; 
 But thou, wild ])ramlile ! back dost bring 
 
 In all their beauteous power. 
 The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 
 
 And lioyhood's liloss'my hour, 
 Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 
 
 Thou bid'st me be a boy, 
 To gad with thee the woodland's o'er. 
 
 In freedom and in joy." 
 
 Browne. Moses Browne is worthy of notice as a minor poet 
 
 of this century. Amongst his miscellaneous poems the Piscatory 
 
 Eclogues are the most interesting, but there are also many others 
 
 of an excellent character. The following To the River Lea is a 
 
 good specimen. 
 
 "Sweet stream, where most my haunts delight. 
 Whose scenes to solemn thoughts invite, 
 May my calm life resemble Thee, 
 Such pleasure give, so useful be. 
 
 As passing straws, and buoyant leaves. 
 Thy yielding surface but receives. 
 While pearls, that lure the searching eye, 
 I)eep-tr(>asuretl in thy bosom lie ; 
 My tritk's such reception fmd, 
 I''loat lightly transient o'er my mind. 
 While weightier thoughts admission win,
 
 682 Minor Foets of the Georgian Period. 
 
 Sink its whole depths, and rest within. 
 
 As the large face the heavens expose 
 Thy pure reflecting mirror shows, 
 Yet paintS; in small terrestrial scenes, 
 Some bordering flowers or pendant greens ; 
 So, with resemblances divine. 
 My copying life direct to shine ; 
 While Earth's vain forms, grown distant less. 
 Their fewer images express. 
 
 Teach me thy constancy ; to force 
 O'er bars and straits a stubborn course ; 
 Not idly in suspension held. 
 Thy path not changed, though oft repell'd : 
 Thy patience teach my ruffled soul, 
 When like thy waves its motions roll, 
 Though vex'd to foam, when passions fray, 
 In gentle smiles to glide away. 
 
 Teach me thy rule of temperate bliss. 
 Well -pleased thy flowery lianks to kiss, 
 Yet by no sweets allured aside. 
 Till ocean stops thy restless tide : 
 To me a pattern wide dispense. 
 Meekly to taste the charms of sense ; 
 Still pressing to my wish'd abode. 
 Nor fix'd, till at my centre God." 
 
 GiFFORD. William Gifford, for a long time Editor of the 
 
 "Quarterly Review/' was the author of the Baviad ^.nd McEviad, 
 
 two of the most bitter and powerful satires of modern times : he 
 
 also made a translation of Juvenal, which is one of the best versions 
 
 ever made of a classical author. He was certainly one of the most 
 
 distinguished satirists of his day ; but the personality and bitterness 
 
 of his writings overbalance unpleasantly the sincerity and learning 
 
 with which they are written. Byron says " Jeffrey and Gifford 1 
 
 take to be the monarchs in prose and poetry." The poem quoted 
 
 below is selected from his miscellaneous -writings. 
 
 " I wish I was where Anna lies, 
 
 For I am sick of lingering here ; 
 And every hour affection cries, 
 Go and partake her humble bier. 
 
 I wish I could ! For when she died, 
 
 I lost my all ; and life has proved 
 Since that sad hour a dreary void, 
 
 A waste unlovely and unloved. 
 
 But who, when I am turned to clay. 
 Shall duly to her grave repair,
 
 Heben 683 
 
 And pluck the ragged moss away, 
 
 And weeds that have ' no business there ? ' 
 
 And who with pious hand shall bring 
 
 The flower she cherished, snow-drops cold, 
 
 And violets that unheeded spring. 
 To scatter o'er her hallowed mould ? 
 
 And who, while memory loves to dwell, 
 
 Upon her name for ever dear, 
 Shall feel his heart with passion swell, 
 
 And pour the bitter, bitter tear? 
 
 I did it ; and would fate allow, 
 
 Should visit still, should still deplore 
 But health and strength have left me now. 
 
 And I, alas ! can weep no more. 
 
 Take then, sweet maid ! this simple strain, 
 
 The last I ofler at thy shrine ; 
 Thy grave must then undecked remain. 
 
 And all thy memory fade with mine. 
 
 And can thy soft persuasive look. 
 
 Thy voice that might with music vie. 
 Thy air that every gazer took. 
 
 Thy matchless elocjuence of eye ; 
 
 Thy spirits frolicsome as good. 
 
 Thy courage by no ills dismayed. 
 Thy patience by no wrongs subdued 
 
 Thy gay good -humour, can they fade ?" 
 
 Hebek. Bishop Heber was the writer of several poems of great 
 
 beauty, chiefly of a religious character. His verses abound with 
 
 shrewd common sente, and in this respect he bears a strong re- 
 
 sembhmce to Cowper. The following beautiful passage has been 
 
 selected from the poem entitled The Passage of the Red Sea. 
 
 "Oil I welcome came the morn, where Israel stood 
 In trustless wonder by the avenging flood ! 
 Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show 
 The drifted wreck of Zoan's jiridc lielow ; 
 The mangled limbs of men the broken car 
 A few sad relics of a nation's war : 
 Alas, how few ! Then soft as Klim's well. 
 The precious tears of new-liorn freedom fell. 
 And 1k' whose lianlenM heart alike had borne 
 The liousc (if l)oii(lage and tli' oppressor's scorn, 
 The slubboin .slave, by Impc's new licams subdued. 
 In faltering acrciil.s si.liliM his gialiiiiilc - 
 Till kiiKJliiig inln w.irnKT zeal. ai'aiii<l 
 The virL;in timlircl uakcd its si'i\i.r smMul ;
 
 684 Minor Poets of the Georgian Period 
 
 And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest, 
 
 The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam s breast. 
 
 She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky. 
 
 The dark transparence of her lucid eye, 
 
 Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. 
 
 'Where now' she sang, 'the tall the Egyptian spear? 
 
 On's sun-like shield, and Zoan's chariot, where ? 
 
 Above their ranks the whelming waters spread ? 
 
 Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed ! ' 
 
 And every pause between as Miriam sang, 
 
 From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang. 
 
 And loud and far their stormy chorus spread, 
 
 ' Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed ! ' " 
 
 Taylor. -Jane Taylor, the authoress of Rhymes for the Nursery, 
 
 Original Poems and Hymns for Infant Mind., &^c. has chiefly 
 
 distinguished herself by her work entitled Essays in Rliyme, which 
 
 Montgomery says "has never been appreciated as it ought to be 
 
 in the polite literature of the age." It exhibits the most exquisite 
 
 skill in the delineation of human nature and character, and is 
 
 clothed in the most beautiful yet simple language. The following 
 
 extract will sufficiently testify to its beauty, and justify the high 
 
 opinion it was held by James Montgomery and others. 
 
 "Are there not portions of the sacred word. 
 So often preach'd and quoted, read and heard, 
 That, though of deepest import, and design'd 
 With joy or fear to penetrate the mind. 
 They pass away with notice cold and brief, 
 Like drops of rain upon a glossy leaf? 
 Such is the final sentence, on that day. 
 When all distinctions shall be done away 
 But what the rigliteous Judge shall bring to light. 
 Between the left-hand millions and the right. 
 Here in his word, in beams of light, it stands. 
 What will be then demanded at our hands ; 
 Clear and unclouded now the page appears, 
 j4s even then illumed by blazing spheres. 
 The question is not, if our earthly race 
 Was once enlighten'd, by a flash of grace ; 
 If we sustain'd a place on Zion's hill, 
 And call'd him Lord, but if we did his will. 
 What if the stranger, sick and captive lie 
 Naked and hungry and we pass them by I 
 Or do but some extorted pittance tlu'ow. 
 To save our credit, not to ease their woe ! 
 Or strangers to the cliarity w hence springs 
 The liberal heart devising liberal things.
 
 Cunningham. 685 
 
 We, cumber'd ever with our own pursuits, 
 To others leave the labour aud its fruits ; 
 Pleading excuses for tlie crumb we save, 
 For want of faith to cast it on the wave ! 
 
 Shall we go forth with joy to meet our Lord, 
 Enter his kingdom, reap the full reward ? 
 
 Can such his good, his faithful servants be, 
 Blest of the Father? Read his word and see. 
 
 What if, in strange defiance of that rule. 
 Made not in Moses' but the Gospel 'ii:^oo\, 
 Shining as clearly as the light of heaven, 
 'They who forgive not, shall not be forgiven.' 
 We live in anger, hatred, envy, strife. 
 Still firmly hoping for eternal life ; 
 And where the streams of Christian love should flow. 
 The root of bitterness is left to grow ; 
 Resisting evil, indisposed to brook 
 A word of insult or a scornful look ; 
 And speak the language of the world in all 
 Except yc challenge and the leaden ball ! 
 
 What if, mistrustful of its latent worth, 
 We hide our single talent in the earth ! 
 And what if self is pamper'd not denied ! 
 What if he is never crucified ! 
 What if the world be hidden in the heart 
 Will it be 'Come ye blessed!' or 'Depart!' 
 
 Who then shall conquer? who maintain the tight ? 
 Even they that walk by faith and not by sight ; 
 Who, having wash'd their robes and made them white, 
 Press tow'rds the mark, and see the promised land, 
 Not dim and distantly, but near at hand. 
 We are marching down a sloping hill, 
 Without a moment's time for standing still ; 
 Where every slc]i accelerates the pace, 
 More and more rapid till we reach the base ; 
 And then, no clinging to the yielding dust ! 
 And ocean rolls below, and plunge we must, 
 What plainer language labours to express, 
 Thus metaphoric is allow'd to dress ; 
 And this but serves on naked truth to throw 
 'J'hal hazy, indistinct, and distant glow, 
 Through \vhich we wish the future \o appear. 
 Not as it is indeed true, awful, near." 
 
 Cunningham. -Allan Cunningham was another writer of the 
 
 old ballad poetry r)f Scotland, upon which he greatly improved, 
 
 and of which lie has left many beautiful cxantples. There is great 
 
 merit also in his pastorals ; while from amongst his works, taken 
 
 collectively, many odd pieces might be chosen of the greatest beauty :
 
 686 Minor Poets of the Victorian Period. 
 
 the following delightful verses, entitled the Morning Song, for 
 
 example. 
 
 " Oh, come ! for the lily 
 
 Is white on the lea ; 
 Oh, come I for the wood-doves 
 
 Are paired on the tree : 
 The lark sings with dew 
 
 On her wings and her feet ; 
 The thrush pours his ditty, 
 
 Loud,, varied, and sweet : 
 So come where the twin-hares 
 'Mid fragrance have been. 
 And with flowers I will weave thee 
 
 A crown like a queen. 
 
 Oh, come ! hark the throstle 
 
 Invites you aloud ; 
 And wild comes the plover's cry 
 
 Down from the cloud : 
 The stream lifts its voice, 
 
 And yon daisy's begun 
 To part its red lips, 
 
 And drink dew in the sun. 
 The sky laughs in light, 
 
 Earth rejoices in green 
 So come, and I'll crown thee 
 
 With flowers like a queen ! 
 
 Oh, haste ! hark the shepherd 
 
 Hath waken'd his pipe, 
 And led out his lambs 
 
 Where the blae-berry's ripe : 
 The bright sun is tasting 
 
 The dew on the thyme ; 
 Yon glad maiden's lilting 
 
 An old bridal-rhyme. 
 There's joy in the heaven 
 
 And gladness on earth- 
 So, come to the sunshine. 
 
 And mix in the mirth." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV, 
 
 MINOR POETS OF THE VICTORIAN PERIOD. 
 
 Hunt. Leigh Hunt's style of poetry is partly Italian, and 
 partly after the early English. His works are full of fresh pictures 
 of nature, and his representation of the actions and passions of his
 
 Hunt. 687 
 
 characters are remarkable for their directness and simplicity. 
 This homeliness and simplicity is also observable in his diction. 
 A modern writer has observed, "his every sentence is flavoured 
 with the hawthorn and the primrose." His best poem is The Story 
 ofRiminii, a narrative, founded on a passage in Dante ; and contains 
 several descriptions of natural scenery of a most pleasing charac- 
 ter ; in fact, this peculiarly clear and fresh delineation of natural 
 scenery and objects may be said to constitute the chief merit of his 
 poetry. One of the finest parts in this poem is the concluding pas- 
 sage, in which the poet describes the approach of the funeral party 
 with his dead hero and heroine. It is thus drawn : 
 
 "The clays were then at close of autumn, still, 
 A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill ; 
 There was a fitful moaning air aliroad ; 
 And ever and anon, over the road. 
 The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, 
 Whose trunks, wet. bare, and cold, seem'd ill at ease. 
 The people, who, from reverence, kept at home, 
 Jyisten'd till afternoon to hear them come ; 
 And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard 
 But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd, 
 Till tow'rds the vesper hour ; and then, 'twas said 
 Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read ; 
 And others said, that they could hear a sound 
 Of many horses tram|)]ing the moist ground. 
 .Still nothing came : till on a sudden, just 
 As the wind open'd in a rising fjust, 
 A voice of chaunting rose, and, as it spread, 
 They plainly heard the anthem for the dead. 
 It was the choristers, who went to meet 
 The train, and now were entering the first street. 
 Then turn'd aside that cit_\-, young and old. 
 And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roU'd. 
 l?ut of the older people few could bear 
 To keep the window, when tlie train drew near; 
 And all felt double tenderness to see 
 The bier apjjroaehing, slow and steadily, 
 On whirh those two in senseless coldness lav, 
 Who, but some brief )ear> since, it seem'd a day, 
 4 Had left their walls. luveU- in Icirm and minfi ; 
 
 In sunny nianhonrl he, - she honour'd f.iir, and kind. 
 
 On that same night, tliose lovers silently 
 Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
 
 688 Minor Poets of the Victorian Period, 
 
 There, side by side, and hand in hand they lay, 
 In the green ground ; and on fine nights in May 
 Young hearts betroth'd, used to go there, to pray." 
 
 Barton. Bernard Barton, or as he was commonly termed, the 
 *' Quaker poet," published several volumes of poetry, under the var- 
 ious titles of Melfical Effusions, Poetic Vigils, Napoleon and other 
 poems, Devotional Verses, &^c. Amongst the former collection 
 there are many which manifest considerable thought and poetic 
 feeling, and in most there is to be found a melodious versification. 
 The following stanzas entilled Thouglits on Evening, are extracted 
 from the Metrical Effusions, 
 
 "All round was still and calm; the noon of night 
 
 Was fast approaching : up th' unclouded sky 
 The glorious moon pursued her path of light. 
 
 And shed her silv'ry splendour far and nigh ; 
 No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh, 
 
 Could reach the ear ; and that so softly blew, 
 It scarcely stirr'd, in sweeping lightly by, 
 
 Th' acacia's airy foliage ; faintly too 
 It kiss'd the jasmine's stars which just below me grew. 
 
 Before me, scatter'd here and there, are trees. 
 
 Whose massy outline of reposing shade, 
 Unbroken by that faint and fitful breeze, 
 
 With the clear sky a lovely contrast made : 
 'Twas nature in her chastest charms array'd ! 
 
 How could I then abruptly leave such scene ? 
 I could not ; for the beauties it display'd 
 
 To me were dearer than the dazzling sheen 
 Of noon's effulgent hour, or morning's sparkling mien." 
 
 MiTFORD. Miss Mitford was the author of several dramatic 
 poems, entitled yjclien, Rienzi, The Vespers of Palermo, 6-'^., be- 
 sides several miscellaneous poems, Her fame rests chiefly however 
 on her novel, The Villaoe, in which she has described the village 
 life and scenery of England with the beauty and delicacy of 
 Goldsmith himself. Shaw says, "the descriptions are drawn with 
 the truth and fidelity of Crabbe and Cowper,but without the moral 
 gloom of the one, and the morbid sadness of the other. Whether 
 it is her pet greyhound Lily, or the sunburnt, curly, ragged village 
 child, the object glows before us with something of that daylight 
 sunshine which we find in its highest perfection in the rural and 
 familiar for the power of Shakespeare." Her poems also are re-
 
 Proctor. 689 
 
 markable for the same power of thought and true pictures of rustic 
 
 images. The following passage is characteristic of the abov'e 
 
 remarks. 
 
 " There's a farm close by 
 Which is almost my envy. And it is 
 The prettiest walk ! Through a beech-wood, the path, 
 A wild, rude copse-road winds beneath the light 
 And feathery stems of the young trees, so fresh 
 In their new delicate green, and so contrasting 
 With their slim, flexile forms, that almost seem 
 To bend as the wind passes, with the firm 
 Deep-rooted vigour of those older trees, 
 And nobler, those grey giants of the woods, 
 That stir not at the tempest. Oh ! that path 
 Is pleasant, with its beds of richest moss, 
 And tufts of fairest flowers, fragrant woodroof 
 So silver white, wood-sorrel elegant, 
 Or light anemone. A pleasant path 
 Is that : with such a sense of freshness round us, 
 Of cool and lovely light : the very air 
 Has the hue of the young leaves. Downward the road 
 Winds, till beneath a beech, whose slender stem 
 Seems tossed across the path, all suddenly 
 
 The close wood ceases, and a steep descent 
 
 Leads to a valley, whose opposing side 
 
 fs crowned with answering woods : a narrow valley 
 
 Of richest meadow land, which creeps half up 
 
 The opposite hill ; and in the midst a farm, 
 
 With its old ample orchard, now one flush 
 
 Of fragrant bloom ; and just beneath the wood, 
 
 Close by the house, a rude ileserted chalk pit, 
 
 Half full of rank and creeping plants, with briers 
 
 And pendent roots of trees half covered o'er, 
 
 Lil<e some wild shaggy ruin. Beautiful to me, 
 
 Is that lone farm, Tlicre is a peace, 
 
 A deep repose, a silent harmony, 
 
 Of nature and of man. The circling woods 
 
 .Shut out all human eyes ; and the gay orchard 
 
 Spreads its sweet world of blossoms, all unseen. 
 
 Save by the smiling sky. That were a s}iot 
 
 To live and die in !'' 
 
 Proci'OR. This writer published several poems of real beauty, 
 under the fictitious name of Barry Cornwall, the principal of 
 which was entitled Marcian Coloiina. an Italian Tale. Besides 
 possessing a beautiful fancy and diction, his poems arc distinguish- 
 ed for considerable tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and he luiites 
 the best qualities of the richest moderns and the purest ancients.
 
 690 Minor Poets of the Victorian Period. 
 
 An example of his poetry may be seen in the following lines, An 
 
 Address to the Ocean. 
 
 "O thou vast ocean, ever-sounding sea ! 
 Thou symbol of a drear immensity ! 
 Thou thing that windest round the solid world 
 Like a huge animal, which, downward hurl'd 
 From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone. 
 Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. 
 Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep 
 Is like a giant's slumber, loud and deep. 
 Thou speakest in the east and in the west, 
 At once, and on thy heavily-laiden breast 
 Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life 
 Or motion, jet are moved and meet in strife. 
 The earth hath nought of this ; nor chance nor change 
 Euffles its surface, and no spirits dare 
 Give answer to the tempest-waken air ; 
 But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range 
 At will, and wound its bosom as they go. 
 Ever the same it hath no ebb, no flow ; 
 But in their stated round the seasons come, 
 And pass like visions to their viewless home, 
 And come again and vanisVi : the young spring 
 Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming, 
 And winter always winds his sullen horn. 
 And the wild autumn with a look forlorn 
 Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies 
 Ween and flowers sicken when the summer flies. 
 Oh ! wonderful thou art, great element ; 
 And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, 
 And lovely in repose : thy summer form 
 Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves 
 Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, 
 I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, 
 Marking the sunlight at the evening hour. 
 And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach 
 ' Eternity, eternity, and power. ' " 
 
 Hemans. Mrs. Hemans, although inferior to Joanna Baillie in 
 power of conception, and in metaphysically analysing human feel- 
 ings, may be considered as one of our finest ornaments of female 
 literature. In the poetry of the affections, indeed, she certainly 
 stands unrivalled. United with great beauty, there is no incon- 
 siderable amount of skill exhibited in her poetry : delicacy of 
 versification, and equality in the treatment of the subject, being the 
 two great constituents of her writing. There is not that loftiness of 
 style which distinguishes the poets of this age : but her works will
 
 Henians. - 691 
 
 always hold a prominent position amongst the English poets, for 
 the sincerity with which they are written. Wilson very beautifully 
 observes ''In her poetry, religious truth and intellectual beauty 
 
 meet together Over her pictures of humanity are 
 
 spread the glory and the grace reflected from purity of morals, 
 delicacy of perception and conception, sublimity of religious faith, 
 and warmth of patriotism ; and turning from the dark and degraded, 
 whether in subject or sentiment she seeks out those verdant oases 
 in the desert of human life, on which the affections may most 
 pleasantly rest." The chief part of her poetry, and that by which 
 she is most admired, are the Songs of the Affections, many of which 
 are to a very high degree beautiful. From amongst her miscel- 
 laneous poetry, The Sunbeatn, may be read as a beautiful specimen. 
 It is one of the sweetest pieces of its kind to be found. 
 
 "Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall 
 A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
 A bearer of hope unto land and sea 
 Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 
 
 Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; 
 Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ; 
 Thou hast lit uj) the sliips and the feathery foam, 
 And gladdened the sailor like words from home. 
 
 To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
 Thou art streaming on through their green arcades ; 
 And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow 
 Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 
 
 I looked on the mountains a vapour lay 
 F'olding their heights in its dark array : 
 Thou breakest forth, and the mist l)ecame 
 A crown and a mantle of living flame. 
 
 I looked on the peasant's lowly cot 
 Something of sadness had wrapt the spot, 
 But a gleam oH/uy on its lattice fell. 
 And it laughed into l)eauty at that bright spell. 
 
 To the earth's wild jilaces a guest thou art, 
 P'lushinj; the waste like the rose's heart ; 
 And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
 A tender smile on the ruin's head. 
 
 Thou takest thr(nigh the dim church-aisle thy way, 
 And its pillars from twilight flasli forth to day, 
 And its hii;h, i)ale tcMiihs, with their trojihic- old. 
 Are bathed in a fl(>u<l as of innllen r-^M.
 
 692 Minor Poets of the Victorian Period. 
 
 And thou turnest not from the humbles grave, 
 Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave : 
 Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
 Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 
 
 Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee? 
 
 Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! 
 
 One thing is like thee to mortals given, 
 
 The faith touching all things with hues of heaven ! " 
 
 Pollock. Robert Pollock is the author of a long poem entitled 
 the Course of Time, written in blank verse. It comprises a sketch 
 of the life and end of man, and as a poem possesses no inconsider- 
 able merit. Many of the passages in it will deservedly rank with some 
 of the best efifusions of any ancient or modern writers of poetry. 
 Its principal fault is that the colouring is too often sombre and 
 gloomy. There are some of the parts of the poem, which have in 
 them the ring and flow of Milton. The two following passages 
 are beautiful examples of this poem. 
 
 " Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me 
 The solitude of vast extend, untouched 
 By hand of art, where Nature sowed herself, 
 And reaped her crops ; whose garments were the clouds 
 Whose minstrels, brooks ; whose lamps, the moon and stars ; 
 Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters ; 
 Whose warriors, mighty winds ; whose lovers, flowers ; 
 Whose orators, the thunderbolts of God ; 
 Whose palaces, the everlasting hills ; 
 Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable blue ; 
 And from whose rocky turrets, battled high. 
 Prospect immense spread out on ail sides round. 
 Lost now between the welkin and the main. 
 Now walled with hills that slept al:)ove the storm." 
 
 " O Love divine ! Harp, lift thy voice on high ! 
 Shout , angels ! shout aloud, ye sons of men ! 
 And burn my heart, with the eternal flame ! 
 My lyre, be eloquent with endless praise ! 
 O Love divine ! immeasurable Love ! 
 Stooping from heaven to earth, from earth to hell. 
 Without beginning, endless, boundless Love ! 
 Al.iove all asking, giving far, to those 
 Who nought deserved, wlio nought deserved but death I 
 Saving the vilest I saving me ! O Love 
 Divine ! O ISaviour God ! O Lamb, once slain ! 
 At thought of thee, thy love, thy flowing blood. 
 All thoughts decay ; all things remembered fade ; 
 All hopes return ; all actions done by men 
 Or angels, disappear'd, absorbed, and lost ;
 
 Coleridge. 693 
 
 All fly, as from the great white Throne which he 
 The prophet, saw, in vision wrapped, the heavens 
 And earth, and sun, and moon, and starry host, 
 Confounded, fled, and found, a place no more." 
 
 Coleridge. Hartley Coleridge, and Sara Coleridge were the 
 
 children of the great Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose works have 
 
 already been commented upon. They were both writers of poetry, 
 
 and produced equally, many pieces of merit. The latter is well 
 
 known for the dissertions which she appended, after the death 
 
 of her father, to many of his works, which are remarkable for 
 
 their power of thought and expression. The following lines On 
 
 Certain golden Fishes, will afford an example of the works of the 
 
 brother. 
 
 " Restless forms of living light, 
 Quivering on your lucid wings, 
 Cheating still the curious sight 
 With a thousand shadow ings ; 
 Various as the tints of even, 
 Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, 
 Reflected on your native streams 
 In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams. 
 Harmless warriors clad in mail 
 Of silver breastplate, golden scale ; 
 Mail of nature's own bestowing, 
 With peaceful radiance mildly glowing ; 
 Keener than the Tartar's arrow. 
 Sport ye in your sea so narrow. 
 VVas the sun himself your sire? 
 Were ye born of vital \'we ? 
 Or of the sliade of golden flowers, 
 Such as we fetch from eastern bowers, 
 To mock this murky clime of ours ? 
 Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 
 Weaving many a mazy dance ; 
 Seeming still to grow in size, 
 When ye would elude our eyes. 
 I'l-ftty creatures ! we might deem 
 Ve were happy as ye seem, 
 As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 
 As light, as loving, and as litlic, 
 As gladly earnest in your play, 
 As when ye gleamed in fair Clalhay ; 
 And yet, since on this hapless earth 
 '["here's small sincerity in mirth, 
 And laughter oft is but an art 
 To drown the outcry of the heart, 
 It n\ay be, that your ceaseless gambols, 
 Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles
 
 694 Minor Poets of the Victorian Period. 
 
 Your restless roving round and round 
 The circuit of your crystal bound, 
 Is but the task of weary pain, 
 And endless labour, dull and vain ; 
 And while your forms are gaily shining, 
 Your little lives are inly pining ! 
 Nay but still I fain would dream, 
 That ye are happy as ye seem." 
 
 Bayly.^ Thomas Haynes Bayly is remembered principally by 
 his songs, amongst which some of the most celebrated are The 
 Soldier's Tear, She wore a Wreath of Roses, fd be a Btitterfly, We 
 met 'twas in a crowd, &^c. Besides these however he is the writer 
 of many very beautiful sacred pieces, from amongst which the fol- 
 lowing verses entitled The Aladonna and c7/7rt' have been selected. 
 
 ' ' He came not from on high 
 
 Arrayed in splendour bright ; 
 He threw aside the attributes 
 
 Of majesty and might : 
 A gentle Child the virgin breast 
 Of Woman was his place of rest. 
 
 No loud avenging Voice, 
 
 Proclaimed Messiah's birth ; 
 The Son of God came down to teach 
 
 Humility on Earth ! 
 And by his sufferings to efface 
 The errors of a sinful race. 
 
 Nor on a purple throne, 
 
 With gold and jewels crowned. 
 But in the meanest dwelling-place 
 
 The precious Babe was found : 
 Yet star-directed Sages came, 
 And kneeling, glorified His name. 
 
 To Shepherd's first was shewn 
 
 The promised boon of Heaven, 
 Who cried, ' To us a Child is bom 
 
 To us a Son is given !' 
 Death from his mighty throne was hurled. 
 Faith hailed Salvation to the world. 
 Lord ! may thy holy Cross 
 
 Bear Peace from clime to clime, 
 Till all mankind at length are freed 
 
 From sorrow born of crime ; 
 Dispel the Unbeliever's gloom, 
 And end the terrors of the Tomb," 
 
 Hood. Thomas Hood, best known as a punning and comic 
 
 versifier, has written also many poems of great feeling, imagination
 
 Hood. 695 
 
 and elegance. There is no poet scarcely whose works are so well 
 
 known, and so highly admired. The character of his mind in the 
 
 variety of subjects he was capable of producing is remarkable, and 
 
 he affords an instance of how close lie the founts of laughter and 
 
 tears. Wainwright has poetically observed "Though melancholy 
 
 would seem to have touched his heart with her painful salutary 
 
 hand, yet is his fancy mercurial, undepressed, and sparkles and 
 
 crackles more from the contact as the northern lights when they 
 
 near the frozen pole." In punning he is only inferior to Hook. 
 
 The two works of this poet, which exhibit the highest genius, are 
 
 his ballad The Dream of Eugene Aram, and The Plea of the Mid- 
 
 S7immer Fairies : in the latter, there is shown all the feeling and 
 
 taste for which his poems are so distinguished. The following 
 
 passages are selected from this poem. 
 
 " We are kindly things, 
 
 And like the offspring nestle with tlie dove, 
 Witness these hearts embroider'd on our wings, 
 To show our constant patronage of love : 
 We sil at even, in sweet bow'rs above 
 Lover's and shake rich odours on the air. 
 To mingle with their sighs ; and still remove 
 The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear 
 Their privacy, and haunt some other where. 
 
 And we are near the mother when she sits 
 
 Beside her infant in her wicker bed ; 
 
 And we are in the fairy scene that flits 
 
 Across its lender brain : sweet dreams we shed. 
 
 And wiiilst tlie little merry soul is tied 
 
 Away, to sport with our young elves, the while 
 
 We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, 
 
 And tickle the soft lips until they smile, 
 
 So that their careful parents they beguile," 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " -We be the handmaids of the Spring; 
 
 In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress, 
 
 Hath wrt)ught her sam])lers on our gauzy wing. 
 
 We tenii upon luuls' !)irih and blossoming, 
 
 And count the leafy tributes that they owe 
 
 As, so much to tho earth so much to fling 
 
 In showers to the brouk- -so mucii to so 
 
 In whirlwinds to the clmuls that made them grow. ' 
 
 K- * * * 
 
 " We make all melodies our care. 
 
 That no false discortls may offend the Sun,
 
 696 Minor Poets of the Victorian Period. 
 
 Music's great master tuning everywhere 
 
 All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one 
 
 Duly to place and season, so that none 
 
 May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn 
 
 1 he shrill sweet lark ; and when the day is done, 
 
 Hust silent pauses for the bird forlorn, 
 
 That singeth with her breast against a thorn, 
 
 We gather in loud choirs the twittering race, 
 That make a chorus with their single note ; 
 And tend on new-fledged birds in every place. 
 That duly they may get their tunes by rote ; 
 And oft, like echoes, answering remote, 
 We hide in thickets from the feather'd throng. 
 And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat, 
 Singing in shrill responses all day long. 
 Whilst the glad truant listens to our song." 
 * * * * 
 
 "The pastoral Cowslips are our little pets, 
 And daisy stars, whose firmament is green ; 
 Pansies, and those veiled nuns, meek violets, 
 Sighing to that warm world from which they screen; 
 And golden daffodils, pluck'd for May's Queen ; 
 And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath ; 
 And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen. 
 Whose tuneful voice, turn'd fragrance in his breatli 
 Kiss'd by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death. 
 
 The widow'd primrose weeping to the moon 
 And Saffron crocus in whose chalice bright 
 A cool libation hoarded for the noon 
 Is kept and she that purifies the light, 
 The virgin-lily, faithful to her white. 
 Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame ; 
 And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright, 
 Our every godchild, by whatever name- 
 Spare us our lives, for we did nurse the same !" 
 
 Landon. Miss Landon, who is better known by her initials 
 
 L. E. L, under which her poems first appeared in various periodicals 
 
 &c, and which have since been collected and published separately ; 
 
 shows in her poetry the closest acquaintance with the highest and 
 
 romantic and generous feelings of the female breast. Wilson says, 
 
 "her affections overflow the imagery her fancy lavishes on all the 
 
 subjects of her song, and colour it all with a rich and tender light, 
 
 which makes even confusion beautiful, and gives a glowing charm 
 
 even to indistinct conception, and when the thoughts themselves 
 
 are full formed and substantial, brings them prominently out upon
 
 Lando?i. 697 
 
 the eye of the soul in flashes that startle us into sudden admiration." 
 She exhibits herself as a true enthusiast ; and there is a purity and 
 earnestness in her feelings which she throws into her work ; and 
 whereby her poetry receives a distinguished charm. Her genius 
 also is original; this is particularly seen in the choices of her 
 subjects. they are unborrowed. The following specimen is ex- 
 tracted from the beautiful tale of Rosalie, 
 
 " It must be worth a life of toil and care, 
 
 Worth those dark chains tlie wearied one must bear 
 Who toils up fortune's steep, all that can wring 
 The worn-out bosom with lone suffering, 
 Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, 
 And long deferr'd ho]ies of many years, 
 To reach again that little quiet spot. 
 So well loved once, and never quite forgot ; 
 To trace again the steps of infancy, 
 And catch tlieir freshness from their memory 
 And it is triumph, sure, when fortune's sun 
 Has shone upon us, and our task is done, 
 To show our iiarvest to the eyes which were 
 Once all the world to us ! Perhaps they are 
 Some who had presatjcd kindly of our youth. 
 l'"eel we not proud their prophecy was sooth ? 
 But how felt Rosalie? The very air 
 
 Seeni'd as it brought reproach ! their was no eye 
 To look delighted, welcome none was there ! 
 
 She felt as feels an outcast wandering by 
 Where every door is closed ! She K)ok'd around ; 
 She heard some voices' sweet familiar soun 1. 
 There were somechange<.l, and some reincinber'd thini^s ; 
 There were girls, whom she left in their tirst springs. 
 Now blush'd into full beauty. There was one 
 Whom she loved tenderly in days now t;()ne ! 
 She was not dancinij g^ily with the rest : 
 A rose-cheek'd child within her arms was presl ; 
 And it had twined its small hands in the liair 
 That cluster'd o'er its mother's brow : as fair 
 As buds in spring. 
 
 
 
 She reachetl her mother's cottage ; by that gate 
 She thought how her once lover wont to wail 
 To tell her honied tales ; and then .slie thoui^ht 
 On all the utter ruin he had wrouLjlii ! 
 The moon shone brightly as it u.--cd to do 
 Ere youth, and hope, and love, had lieon untrue ; 
 l>ut it shone o'er the desolate I Tiie lloweis 
 Were dead ; the faded jessamine. un!)ouad.
 
 698 Mtvor Poets of the Victorian Period, 
 
 Trail'd, like a heavy weed, upon the ground; 
 
 And fell the moonlight vainly over trees, 
 
 Which had not even one rose, although the breeze, 
 
 Almost as if in mockery, had brought 
 
 Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught ! 
 
 She enter'd in the cottage. None were there ! 
 The hearth was dark, the walls look'd cold and bare, 
 All all spoke poverty and suffering ! 
 All all was changed ! and but one only thing 
 Kept its old place ! Rosalie's mandolin 
 Hung on the wall, where it had ever been. 
 There was one other room, and Rosalie 
 Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame 
 Gleam'd from a dying lamp, a cold air came 
 Damp from the broken casement. There one lay, 
 Like marVjle seen by the moonlight ray ! 
 And Rosalie drew near. One wither'd hand 
 Was stretch'd, as it would reach a wretched stand 
 Where some cold water stood ! And by the bed 
 She knelt and gazed and saw her mother dead !" 
 
 Longfellow. Although England cannot claim the honour of 
 Longfellow's birth, still he belongstous, for his works have become 
 as household words in our country. His writings manifest him 
 a poet of true genius : the melodious versification, the beauty of 
 the imagery, and the brilliancy of conception, all serving to 
 make him the real artist ; while the exalted tone of his thoughts, 
 and the high moral teachings dispersed throughout, still further 
 i ncreases to give him a place in the hearts and minds of his readers. 
 "A man's heart beats in his every line," says his country man 
 Gilfillan. It is impossible even to read the wanderings of Evange- 
 line without beingmovedby the reality of the picture, and following 
 her with sympathetic heart to the end of her journey. And there 
 is something equally to call out mutual feelings in almost every 
 character he has delineated. The following extract is from the 
 poem entitled the Song of Hiazuaiha. 
 
 "Slowly o'er the simmering landscape, 
 Fell the evening's dusk and coolness. 
 And the long and level sunbeams 
 Shot their spears into the forests, 
 Breaking through the shields of shadow, 
 Rushed into each secret ambush, 
 Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ; 
 Still the guests of Hiawatha,* 
 Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 
 
 Prophet.
 
 Longfelloiv. 699 
 
 P'rom his place rose Hiawatha, 
 Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
 Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 
 Did not wake the guests that slumbered ; 
 
 'I am going, O Nokomis, 
 On a long and distant journey, 
 To the portals of the Sunset, 
 To the regions of the home-wind, 
 Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin. 
 But these guests I leave behind me, 
 In your watch and ward I leave them ; 
 See that never harm comes near them ; 
 See that never fear molests them. 
 Never danger or suspicion. 
 Never want of food or shelter, 
 In the lodge of Hiawatha ! ' 
 
 Forth into the village went he, 
 Bade farewell to all the warriors. 
 Bade farewell to all the young men, 
 Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 
 
 'I am going, O my people, 
 On a long and distant journey ; 
 Many moons and many winters 
 Will have come, and will have vanished, 
 Ere I come again to see you. 
 But my guests I leave behind me ; 
 Listen to their words of wisdom, 
 Listen to the truth tliey tell you, 
 For the Master of Life has sent them 
 From the land of light and morning ! ' 
 
 On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
 Turned and waved his hand at parting ; 
 On tiie clear antl luminous water 
 Launched liis birch canoe for sailing 
 From the pebbles of tlie margin 
 Shoved it forth into the water ; 
 Whispered to it, ' Westward ! westward !' 
 And with speed it darted forward. 
 And the evening sun descending 
 Set the clouds on iwo. with redness, 
 liurned the broad sl<y, like a prairie, 
 Left upon the level water 
 One long track and trail of splendour, 
 Down whose stream, as down a river. 
 Westward, westward, Hiawatha 
 Sailed into the fiery sunset, 
 Sailed into the purp-le vapours, 
 Sailed into the dusk of evening. 
 
 And tlie people fmrn the mar^jin 
 Watclied him floating, rising, sinking. 
 Till the birch canoe seemed liftetl
 
 700 Minor Poets of the Vtdorian Period. 
 
 High into that sea of splendour, 
 Till it sank into the vapours 
 Like the new-moon slowly, sinking 
 Rising in the purple distance. 
 
 And they said, ' Farewell for ever ! ' 
 Said, ' Farewell, O Hiawatha !' 
 And the forests, dark and lonely, 
 Moved through all their depths of darkness. 
 Sighed, 'Farewell, O Hiawatha!' 
 And the waves upon the margin 
 Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 
 Sobbed, 'Farewell, O Hiawatha !' 
 And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,* 
 From her haunts among the fenlands, 
 Screamed, 'Farewell, O Hiawatha!' 
 
 Thus departed Hiawatha, 
 Hiawatha the Beloved, 
 In the glory of the sunset 
 In the purple mists of evening, 
 To the regions of the home-wind, 
 Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, 
 To the Islands of the Blessed, 
 To the kingdom of Ponemah, f 
 To the land of the Hereafter ! " 
 
 HowiTT. William Howitt, and his wife Mary Howitt were dis- 
 tinguished at this time for their poetical writings. In their feeling 
 for and description of external nature, they are at the head of any 
 of the poetical writers of their time. The following passage, writ- 
 ten on A bright S iinny Noon, is selected from the writings of 
 William Howitt as an illustration. 
 
 ' Who has not dreamed a world of bliss 
 On a bright sunny noon like this. 
 Couch'd by his native brook's green maze, 
 With comrade of his boyish days ? 
 While all around them seem'd to be 
 Just as in joyous infancy. 
 Who has not lov'd, at such an hour, 
 Upon that heath, in birchen bower, 
 I.uU'd in the poet's dreamy mood, 
 Its wild and sunny solitude ? 
 While o'er the waste of purple ling 
 You mark'd a sultry glimmering : 
 Silence herself there seems to sleep, 
 Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep. 
 Where slowly stray those lonely sheep 
 Through the tall fox glove's crimson bloom. 
 And gleaming of the scatter'd broom." 
 
 lilvie heron. t Hereafter.
 
 Hmvitt. 701 
 
 The following lines entitled The Sunshine, by Mary Hewitt, 
 
 are characteristic of the same remark. 
 
 "I love the sunshine everywhere 
 In wood, and field, and glen ; 
 I love it in the busy haunts 
 Of town-imprisoned men. 
 
 I love it, when it streameth In 
 
 The humble cottage door. 
 And casts the chequer'd casement shade 
 
 Upon the red-brick floor. 
 
 I love it, where the children lie 
 
 Deep in the clovery grass, 
 To watch among the turning roots, 
 
 The gold-green beetle pass. 
 I love it, on the breezy sea. 
 
 To glance on sail and oar, 
 While the great waves, like molten glass, 
 Come leaping to the shore. 
 
 I love it, on ths mountain tops. 
 
 Where lies the thawless snow ; 
 And half a kingdom, bathed in light. 
 
 Lies stretching out below. 
 
 Oh ! yes, I love the sunshine ! 
 
 Like kindness, or like mirth. 
 Upon a human countenance 
 
 In sunshine on the earth. 
 
 Upon tiic earth u])on the sea 
 
 And throiigli the crystal air 
 Or piled up clouds- the gracious sun 
 
 Is glorious everywhere." 
 
 The extent to which this work has already run will not permit 
 the author to detail the works of the numerous American poets 
 who lived at this date ; Holmes, Willis, Opie, Ncal, Rrainard, 
 Dana, Webbe, Peabody, Oilman, Percival, Bryant, Sigourney and 
 others.
 
 702 
 
 SELECT TRANSLATIONS. * 
 
 ANACREON. 
 
 See p. 44, 
 
 ODE 111. 
 ' 'At dead of n ight, when mortals lose 
 Their various cares in soft repose, 
 I heard a knocking at my door : 
 Who's that, said I, at this late hour 
 Disturbs my rest ? It sobb'd and cry'd, 
 And thus in mournful tone reply'd. 
 'A poor unhappy child am I, 
 That is come to beg your charity ; 
 Pray let me in I you need not fear ; 
 I mean no harm, I vow and swear ; 
 But, wet and cold, crave shelter here ; 
 Betray'd by night, and led astray, 
 I've lost alas ! I've lost my way.' 
 Mov'd with his little tale of fate, 
 I took a lamp, and op'd the gate ! 
 When see ! a naked boy before 
 The threshold ; at his back he wore 
 A pair of wings, and by his side 
 A crooked bow and quiver ty'd. 
 'My pretty angel ! come, said I, 
 Come to the fire, and do not cry !' 
 I strok'd his neck and shoulders bare, 
 And squeez'd the water from his hair ; 
 Then chaf 'd his little hands in mine, 
 And cheer'd him with a draught of wine. 
 Recover'd thus says he 'I'd know, 
 ' Whether the rain has spoil'd my bow ; 
 'Let's try,' then shot me with a dart, 
 The venom throbb'd, did ache and smart. 
 As if a bee had stung my heart. 
 'Are these your thanks, ungrateful child. 
 Are these your thanks ? ' Th' imposter smil'd ; 
 Farewell my loving host, says he ; 
 All's well ; my bow's unhurt, I see ; 
 But what a wretch I've made of thee !" 
 
 Hughes. 
 
 ODE XXXVll. 
 SPRING. 
 
 ' See Winter's past ! the seasons bring 
 Soft l)reezes with returning spring ; 
 At whose approach the Graces wear 
 Fresh honours in their flowing hair : 
 
 Those Selections sliould accompany Chapt-jis j ami 4, froiii which rcfercuccs will 
 t)e fonnd to have been made.
 
 Anacreon. 703 
 
 The raging seas forget to roar, 
 And, smiling, gently kiss the shore : 
 The sjiortive duck, in wanton play. 
 Now dives, now rises into day ; 
 The cranes from freezing climes repair. 
 And sailing float to warmer air : 
 Th' enlivening suns in glory rise, 
 And gaily dance along the skies. 
 
 The clouds disperse ; or if in showers 
 They fall, it is to wake the flowers : 
 See, verdure clotlies the teeming earth ! 
 The olive struggles into birth : 
 The swelling giajies adorn the vine 
 And kindly promise future wine : 
 Blest juice ! already I in thought 
 Quaff" an imaginary draught." 
 
 Broomk. 
 
 DRINKING. 
 
 "The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 
 And drinks, and gapes for drink again. 
 The plants suck in the earth, and are 
 With constant drinking, fresh and fair. 
 The sea itself, which, one would think. 
 .Should have but little need of drink. 
 Drinks ten thousand rivers up. 
 So fill'd, that they o'erflow the cup. 
 The busy sun (and one would guess, 
 By's drunken tiery face, no less) 
 Drinks up the sea; and when he's done. 
 The moon and stars drink up the sun. 
 They drink and dance by their own light. 
 They drink and revel all the night. 
 Nothing in Nature's sober f )und, 
 But an eternal health goes round. 
 Fill uji the bowl then, till it high. 
 Fill all the glasses there: for why 
 Should every creature drink, but I, 
 Why, man of morals, tell me why?" 
 
 COWI.KV. 
 
 TIIF. SWALLOW. 
 
 ',FooIish prater, what dost thou 
 .So early at my window clo, 
 With lliy tuneless screiiailc? 
 WcU't had been, had Timcus maile 
 TliL-e, as dumb, as I'liil'.mcl ; 
 Tiicre his knife had done hut well, 
 In thy undiscover'd nest
 
 704 Select Translations. 
 
 Thou dost all the winter rest, 
 
 And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, 
 
 Free from the stormy season's noise : 
 
 Free from th' ill thou'st done to me : 
 
 Who disturbs, or seeks out thee? 
 
 Hadst thou all the charming notes 
 
 Of the wood's poetic throats. 
 
 All thy heart could never pay 
 
 What thou'st ta'en from me away : 
 
 Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away 
 
 A dream out of my dreams to day, 
 
 A dream, that ne'er must equalTd be 
 
 By all that waking eyes may see, 
 
 Thou, this damage to repair, 
 
 Nothing half so sweet or fair, 
 
 Nothing half so good can'st bring, 
 
 Though men say, Thou bring'st the spri ngs." 
 
 COWLEV. 
 
 LUCAN. 
 
 See p. 57. 
 
 "Thus, thro' a thousand plagues around "em spread, 
 A weary marcli tlie hardy soldiers tread, 
 Thro' thirst, through toil and death, by Cato led. 
 Their chief, with pious grief and deep regret. 
 Each moment mourns his friends untimely fate ; 
 Wond'ring, he sees some small, some trivial wound 
 Extend a valiant Roman on the ground. 
 Aulus, a noble youth of Tyrrhene blood. 
 Who bore the standard, on a Dipsas trod ; 
 Backward the wrathful serpent bent her head. 
 And, fell with rage, th' unheeded wrong repaid. 
 And, scarce he found some little sense of pain ; 
 Nor could he yet the danger doubt, nor fear 
 That death, with all its terrors, threaten'd there. 
 When lo I unseen, the secret venom spreads. 
 And ev'ry nobler part at once invades ; 
 Swift flames consume the marrow and the brain, 
 And the scorch'd entrails rage with burning pain ; 
 Upon his heart the thirsty poisons prey, 
 And drain the sacred juice of life away. 
 No kindly floods of moisture bathe his tongue, 
 
 . But cleaving to the parched roof it hung ; 
 No trick' ling drops distil, no dewy sweat, 
 To ease his weary limbs, and cool the raging heat. 
 Nor could he weep ; ev'n griefs could not supply 
 Streams from the mournful office of his eye. 
 The never-failing source of tears was dry. 
 Frantic he flies, and with a careless hand 
 Hurls the neglected eagle on the sand ;
 
 Lucan. 705 
 
 Nor hears, nor minds, his pitying chief's command. 
 For springs he seeks, he digs, he proves the ground. 
 For springs, in vain, explores the desert round, , 
 For cooling draughts, which might tlieir aid impart, 
 And quench the burning venom in his heart. 
 Now ev'rywhere for drink, in vain, he pries, 
 Now to the Syrts and briny seas he flies ; 
 The briny seas delight, but seem not to suffice. 
 Nor yet he knows what secret plague he nurs'd, 
 Nor found the poison, but believ'd it thirst. 
 Of thirst, and thirst alone, he still complains, 
 Raving for thirst, he tears his swelling veins, 
 From ev'ry vessel drains a crimson flood, 
 And quaffs in greedy draughts his vital blood. 
 ** 
 I5ut soon a fate more sad, with new surprise, 
 I'lom the first object turns their wond'ring eyes. 
 Wretched Sabellus by a Seps was stung, 
 Fix'd to his Icjr, with deadly teeth, it hung : 
 Sudden the soldier shook it from the wound, 
 Transfix'd and nail'd it to the barren ground. 
 Of all the dire destructive serpent race. 
 None have so much of death, tho' none are less. 
 For straight, around the part, the skin withdrew, 
 Tlie flesh and shrinking sinews backward flew, 
 And left the naked bones expos'd to view. 
 Tiie s]ireading poisons all the parts confound. 
 And the whole body sinks within the wound. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 A fate of different kind Nasidius found, 
 A burning Prester gave the deadly wound ; 
 And straight a sudclen flame began to spread. 
 And paint his visage witli a glowing red. 
 With swift expansion swells llie bloated skin, 
 Nouglit l)ut an undistinguishM mass is seen, 
 \\'hi]e the fair human form lies soft within. 
 The jiuffy poison spreads, and heaves around, 
 'Till all the man is in the monster drown'd. 
 No more the steely plate Ids breast can stay, 
 l!ut yields, and gives the liursting poison way. 
 Not waters so, wlien lire llie rage supjilies, 
 lUibMing on heai)s, in boiling cauldrinis rise, 
 Nor swells ihe sli-etching can\as half so fast, 
 When the sails gather all the ilri\ing blast, 
 Strain llie lougli yanls, and bow the I 'ft)- ninsl. 
 Tho \arious parl^ no longer now are known, 
 One headless foniiless heap remain-- alone ; 
 The fealhei'd kind avoid the fatal fensi, 
 And lea\e it der.dly to >. iine hmiLny beast ; 
 With horror sei/'d, liis sad coni|iaiiions too,
 
 706 Select Translations 
 
 In haste from the unburied carcass flew, 
 
 Look'd back, but fled again, for still the monster grew. 
 
 But fertile Libya still new plagues supplies, 
 And to more horrid monsters turn their eyes. 
 Deeply the fierce Hpemorrhoi's imprest 
 Her fatal teeth on Tullus' valiant breast. 
 The noble youth, with virtue's love inspir'd. 
 Her, in her Cato, follow'd and admir'd ; 
 Mov'd by his great example, vow'd to share 
 With him, each chance of that disastrous war. 
 And as when mighty Eome's spectators meet 
 In the full theatre's capacious seat. 
 At. once, by secret pipes and channels fed. 
 Rich tinctures gush from ev'ry antique head ; 
 At once ten thousand saffron currents flow. 
 And rain their odours on the crowd below : 
 So the warm blood at once from ev'ry part 
 Ran purple poison down, and drain'd the fainting heart, 
 Blood falls for tears, and o'er his mournful face 
 The ruddy drops their tainted passage trace : 
 Where'er the liquid juices find a way, 
 There streams of blood, their crimson rivers stray ; 
 His mouth and gushing nostrils pour a flood, 
 And even in the pores ooze out the trickling blood 
 In the red deluge all the parts lie drown'd, 
 And the whole body seems one bleeding wound. 
 
 Loevus, a colder Aspick bit, and strait 
 His blood forgot to flow, his heart to beat ; 
 Thick shades upon his eye-lids seem'd to creep ; 
 And lock him fast in everlasting sleep : 
 No sense of pain, no torment did he know, 
 But sunk in slumbers to the shades below. 
 
 * * * * * 
 A Basilisk bold Murrus kill'd in vain, 
 
 And nailed it dying to the sandy plain ; 
 Along the spear the sliding venom ran. 
 And sudden, from the weapon, seiz'd the man : 
 His hand first touch'd, e'er it his arm invade. 
 Soon he divides it with his shining blade: 
 The serpent's force by sad example taught, 
 With his lost hand, his ransom'd life he bought. 
 
 * )( * * )( 
 Pursued by dangers, thus they pass'd away 
 
 The restless night, and thus the cheerless day ; 
 Ev'n earth itself they fear'd, the common bed, 
 Where each lay down to rest his weary head ; 
 There no kind trees their leafy couches- strow, 
 The sands no turf nor mossy beds bestow ; 
 Bui tir'd, ar.d fainting with the tedious toil, 
 Expos'd they sleep upon the fatal soil." 
 
 ROWE.
 
 Lucretius. 707 
 
 LUCRETIUS. 
 
 See p. 47- 
 
 " 'Twas Nature's self th' untutored race first taught 
 To sow, to graft; for acorns ripe they saw, 
 And purple berries, shattered from the trees, 
 Soon yield a lineage like the trees themselves. 
 Wlience learned they, curious, through the stem mature 
 To thrust the tender slip, and o'er the soil 
 Plant the fresh shoots that first disordered sprang. 
 Then, too, new cultures tried they, and, with joy, 
 Marked the boon earth, by ceaseless care caressed. 
 Each barbarous fruitage sweeten and subdue. 
 So loftier still and loftier up the hills 
 Drove they the woodlands daily, broadening thus 
 The cultured foreground, that the sight might trace 
 Meads, corn-fields, rivers, lakes, and vineyards gay, 
 O'er hills and mountains thrown ; while through the dales, 
 The downs, the slopes, ran lavish and distinct 
 The purple realms of olives ; as with hues 
 Distinct, though various still the landscape swells 
 Where blooms the dulcet apples, mid the tufts 
 Of trees diverse that blend their joyous shades. 
 
 And from the liquid warblings of the birds 
 Learned they their first rude notes, ere music yet 
 To the rapt ear had tuned the measured verse ; 
 And Zephyr, whispering tlirough the hollow reeds, 
 Taught the first swains the hollow reeds to sound : 
 Whence woke they soon those tender-trembling tones 
 Which the sweet pipe, when by the fingers prest. 
 Pours o'er the hills, the vales, and woodlands wild. 
 Haunts of lone shepherds, and the rural gods. 
 So growing time points, ceaseless, something new, 
 And human skill evolves it into day. 
 
 Thus soothed they every care, with music, thus. 
 Closed every meal, for rests the l)osom then. 
 And oft they threw them on the velvet grass. 
 Near gliding streams, by shadowy trees o'er-arched. 
 And void of costly wealtli found still the means 
 To gladtlen life. -But chief when genial Spring 
 Led forth her laughing train, and the young yoar 
 Painted the meads with roseate flowers profuse 
 Then mirth, and wit, and wiles, and frolic, chief, 
 Flowed from tlie heart ; for tlien the ru>tic muse 
 Warmest inspired them: then lascivious sport 
 Taught round llicir heads, their >liould(.'rs, tauL;lit lo twine 
 Foliage, and flowers, and garlaivls richly (light ; 
 To loose, innuincious time tlioir liiu!)-; to m i\c, 
 An<l beat, with sliirdy foot, iiiatcrMal vx(\\\ ; 
 While many a smile, and many a laughter lotnl, 
 ToUl all was new, and wondrous nnich esteemed.
 
 108 Select Translations. 
 
 TIius wakeful lived they, cheating of its rest 
 The (h^owsy midnight, willi the jocund dance 
 Mixing gay converse, madigrals, and strains 
 Run o'er the reeds with broad recumbent lip : 
 As, wakeful still, our revellers thro\igh night 
 Lead on their defter dance to time precise ; 
 Yet cull not costlier sweets, with all their art, 
 Than the rude offspring earth in woodlands bore." 
 
 Good. 
 
 ' Reflect, moreo'er, how less than nought to us 
 Weighs the long portion of eternal time 
 Fled ere our birth : so, too, the future weighs 
 When death dissolves us. What of horror, then, 
 Dwells there in death ? what gloomy, what austere ? 
 Can there be elsewhere slumber half so sound ? 
 
 The tales of hell exist not in the grave, 
 But here, and curse us living. Tantalus, 
 With broad, rough rock impending o'er his head, 
 And crazed with terror, there is never seen ; 
 But terror dwells with nrortals fate they fear, 
 And fortune, and a host of fancied gods," 
 
 Good. 
 
 CATULLUS. 
 
 Sec p. 17, 
 Lesbia, live to love and pleasure, 
 Careless what the grave may say : 
 When each moment is a treasure, 
 Why should lovers lose a day ? 
 
 Setting suns shall rise in glory. 
 But when little life is o'er. 
 There's an end to all the story : 
 We shall sleep and wake no more. 
 
 Give me then a thousand kisses. 
 Twice ten thousand more bestow, 
 Till the sum of boundless blisses. 
 Neither we nor envy know. 
 
 Langiiokne. 
 
 F.riGRAM V. 
 
 Let's live, my dear, like lovers too, 
 Nor heed what old men say or do.
 
 Martial. 709 
 
 The fallin<T sun will surely rise, 
 
 And dart now glories through the skies. 
 
 But when we fall, alas ! our light 
 
 Will set in everlasting night. 
 
 Come then, let mirth and amorous play 
 
 lie all the business of the day. 
 
 Give me this kiss and this and this ! 
 
 A hundred thousand more. Let's kiss 
 
 I'ill wc ourselves cannot express, 
 
 Nor fny lurl;ing spy confess, 
 
 The boundless measure of our happiness. 
 
 fli.NTON. 
 
 MARTIAL. 
 
 Sec p, 46. 
 
 El'IG. XL\ II. 
 
 Would you, my friend, find out the true recci[)t, 
 
 To live at case, and stem the title of fate ; 
 
 The grand elixir thus you must infuse. 
 
 And these ingredionts to be hapi^y choose : 
 
 ]'"irst an estate, not got v/ith toil and sweat, 
 
 ]]ut unincumber'd left, and free from debt : 
 
 For let that be yovu' dull forcfathe ''s care, 
 
 To jiinch and drudge for his deserving heir ; 
 
 Fruitful and rich, in land that's sound and good. 
 
 That fills your barns with corn, your hearth with wooil ; 
 
 That co'd nor hunger may your house infest, 
 
 While flames invade the skies, and pudding crowns the feast. 
 
 A cpiiel mind, serene, and free from care. 
 
 Nor puzzling on the bench, nor noisy at the bar ; 
 
 A body found, that physic cannot mend ; 
 
 And the best jihysic of the mino, a friend, 
 
 E([i,al in birth, in humour, and in place, 
 
 Thy other self, disiinguish'd but by face ; 
 
 Whose sympathetic soul takes e(pial share 
 
 Of all thy pleasure, and of all thy care. 
 
 A tender wife dissolving by thy side, 
 
 Kasy and chaste, free from debate and pride, 
 
 Fach day a mistross, and each niglu a bride. 
 
 Sleep undi.-iturb'd, and at the dawn of day, 
 
 I'he merry horn, that chides thy tedious slay : 
 
 A horse that's clean, sure-foote<l, swifi, and sound. 
 
 Ami dogs that make the echoing clifls resound ; 
 
 That sweep the dewy plains, out-tly the wind, 
 
 And leave domestic sorrows fir i)eliind. 
 
 rieas'<I with thy present lot, ii.a- grudging at tlio ita-l, 
 
 Not fearing when thy time shall come, nor hoping for thy Ia>t. 
 
 SoMERVll.l.E.
 
 710 Select Translations. 
 
 EPITAPH ON EROTION. 
 
 Underneath this greedy stone 
 
 Lies little sweet Erotion ; 
 
 "Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold, 
 
 NiDp'd away at six years old. 
 
 Thou, whoever thou may'st be, 
 
 That hast this small field after me, 
 
 Let the yearly rites be paid 
 
 To her little slender shade ; 
 
 So shall no disease or jar 
 
 Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar ; 
 
 But this tomb here be alone, 
 
 The only melancholy stone. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 Milo's from home ; and, Milo being gone, 
 His lands bore nothing, but his wife a son : 
 Why she so fruitful, and so bare a field ? 
 The lands lay fallow, but the wife was till'd. 
 
 Fenton. 
 
 PERSIUS. 
 
 "What is't the common reader takes for good ? 
 The verse in fashion is, when numbers flow, 
 Soft without sense, and without spirit slow : 
 So smoodi and eciual, that no sight can find 
 The rivet, where the polish'd piece was joined, 
 So even rll, with such a steady view. 
 As if he shut one eye to level true, 
 Whether the vulgar vice his satire stings, 
 The people's riots, or the rage of kings, 
 The gentle poet is alike in all ; 
 His reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall." 
 
 Dkyden. 
 
 SATIRE II. 
 
 ' But let us for the gods a gift prepare, 
 Which the great man's great charges cannot bear : 
 A soul where laws, both humane and divine, 
 In practice more than speculation shine : 
 A genuine virtue, of a vig'rous kind.
 
 Persius. 711 
 
 Pure in the last recesses of the mind : 
 
 When with such off rings to the gods I come, 
 
 A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb." 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 SATIRE III. 
 
 "What ! ever thus? See! while the beams of day 
 In broad effulgence o'er the shutters play, 
 Stream through the crevice, widen on the walls. 
 On the fifth line the gnomon's shadow falls I 
 Yet still you sleep, like one that, stretched supine, 
 Snores off the fumes of strong Falcrnian wine. 
 Up ! up ! mad Sirius parches eveiy blade. 
 And flocks and herds lie panting in the shade. 
 
 Here my youth rouses, rubs his heavy eyes, 
 ' Is it so late ? so very late ?' he cries ; 
 
 'Shame, shame! who waits? who waits there? quick my page ! 
 Why, when !' His bile o'erflows ; he foams with rage, 
 And brays so loudly, that you start in fear. 
 And fancy all Arcadia at your ear. 
 
 Behold him, with his bed gown and his books, 
 His ])ens and paper, and his studious loo ;s, 
 Intent and earnest ! What arrests his specu, 
 Alas ! the viscous liquid clogs the reed. 
 Dilute it. Pish ! now every word I write 
 Sinks through the paper, and eludes the sight ; 
 ^ow the pen leaves no mark, the point's too fine ; 
 Now 'tis too blunt, and doubles every line I 
 
 O wretch ! whom every day more wretched sees- 
 Are these the fruits of all your studies? these ! 
 Give o'er at once : and like some callow dove, 
 .Some prince's heir,soiiio lady's infant love, 
 Call for chewed pap ; and, pouting at the breast. 
 Scream at liie lullaby that woos to rest ! " 
 
 GiFFOKD. 
 
 SATIRE V. 
 
 '"Tis not, indeed, my talent to engage 
 In lofty trifles, or to swell my page 
 With wind and noise ; but freely to impart, 
 As to a friend, the secrets of my heart ; 
 And, in familiar speech, to let thee know 
 I low mucli I love thee, and how much I owe. 
 Knock (in my heart : for thon hast skill to lind 
 If it soiuid .lolid, or he liU'd witli wind, 
 
 And, thioujdi the \'cil of words, lliou view'st llu- naked mind." 
 
 I KViii:\
 
 712 Select Translations. 
 
 "In spite of this, my freedom still remains. 
 Free ! what, and fetter'd with so many chains ? 
 Canst thou no other master understand 
 Than Inm that freed thee by the pra;lor's wand ? 
 Sliould he, who was thy lord, command thee now, 
 With a harsh voice, and superciHous brow, 
 To servile duties, thou would'st fear no more ; 
 The gallows and the whip are out of door. 
 13ut if thy passions lord it in thy breast, 
 Art thou not still a slave, and still oppress'd ? " 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 STATIUS. 
 
 See p. 16. 
 
 "Meantime the augur, as the rites demand. 
 From out the host selects an able band, 
 In felling trees their manly strength to prove, 
 And heap a pyre with ruins of the grove ; 
 That Vulcan might absolve the guilty snake. 
 And for th'ill-omen'd war atonement make ; 
 ' Tis theirs to force thro' Tempe's gloom a way, 
 Hurl Nemea down, and bare the woods to day. 
 They level straight a venerable wood, 
 That long exempted from the axe had stood ; 
 Thro' Argos and Lycaaun none display'd 
 A greater stretch of hospitable shade. 
 Sacred for length of time it far extends 
 Its branches, nor alone in age transcends 
 The oldest mortal's grandsire, but has seen 
 The nymphs and fauns transform'd in shape an<l mien : 
 Then swift destruction caught th' unhappy grove, 
 Struck by the sounding axe. The birds above 
 (^uit their warm nests, and savages their den, 
 Rous'd by the crash of trees and shouts of men. 
 The cypress, winter proof, Chaonian wood, 
 The lofty beech, the pitch-tree, Vulcan's food, 
 The holm, the yew of deadly juice, and oak, 
 l!y time uninjur'd, bow jjeneath their stroke; 
 The alder, wont to cleave the Ijillowy flood, 
 And ash that soon will drink of luiman blood, 
 7'he fir, th' uncultur'd ash on mountains found, 
 The pine, that breathes forth fragrance from each wound, 
 And married elm, around whose trunks the vine 
 Her tendrils folds, to earth their heads decline, 
 luarlh groans. Such vasty heaps of waste o'ersprcad 
 jNlouiit Ismarus, \\hen Boreas lifts his head 
 From his Ijurst cave : not with such rapid force 
 Red sheets of nightly flpane pursue their course 
 O'er forests, aided by the fanning wind.
 
 Juvenal. 713 
 
 Sylvanus, Pales, and the mongrel kind 
 or satyrs quit with grief their seats of ease, 
 Soft gurgling rills, cool grots and shady trees ; 
 Deep groans the forest, as they take their leave : 
 Close to the trees th' emljracing Dreads cleave. 
 Thus, when some leader to the soldiers rage 
 Resigns a captive town, they all engage 
 Tn C[uest of spoil, and ere the trumpets sound, 
 The plunder'd city's scarcely to be found. 
 They fell, they bear away, they load the cars ; 
 .Scarce such a din attends the work of Mars. 
 And now their equal toil two altar's rais'd 
 Of equal height : one to th' immortals blaz'd, 
 And t' other to the cheerless ghosts of hell, 
 Wiien the grave pii^e ]iroclaim'd the fun'ral knell 
 Mix'd with the crook'd horn." 
 
 Lkv.is. 
 
 JUVENAL. 
 
 See p. 19. 
 
 "What indignation boils within my veins, 
 When pcrjur'd guardians, proud with impious gains. 
 Choke up the streets, too narrow for their trains ! 
 Wliose wards liy want betr.ay'd, to crimes are led, 
 Too foul to name, too fulsome to lie read ! 
 When he who pill'd his province, 'scajies the laws, 
 And keeps his money, though he lost his cause : 
 His line bcgg'd off, contemns his infamy. 
 Can rise at twelve and gel him drunk ere three: 
 I'.njoys his exile, and, condcmn'd in vain. 
 Leaves thee, jircvailing jjrovir.ce, to complain." 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 SATIRE III. 
 
 "O, had you, from the Circus, power to fly, 
 In many a lialcyon village miglit you buy 
 .Some elegant retreat, f )r what will, here. 
 Scarce hire a gloomy dungeon through the year ! 
 There wells, by nature fornie<l, which need no rope. 
 No labouring arm, to crane their waters up, 
 Around your lawn their facile streams shall shower, 
 .\nd cheer the springing plant and opening llower. 
 There live, ('elighted with the rustic's lot, 
 And till, with your own hands, the little spot. 
 The little si)ot shall yield you large amends. 
 And glad, with many a feast, your Saniian friends.
 
 714 Select Translations. 
 
 And, sure, in any corner we can get, 
 To call one lizard ours, in something yet ! 
 Flushed with a mass of indigested food, 
 Which clogs the stomach and inflames the blood, 
 What crowds, with watching wearied and o'erprest, 
 Curse the slow hours, and die for want of rest ! 
 For who can hope his languid lids to close, 
 Where brawling taverns banish all repose? 
 Sleep, to the rich alone, 'his visit pays : ' 
 And hence the seeds of many a dire disease. 
 'J'he carts loud rumbling through the narrow way. 
 The drivers' clamours at each casual stay. 
 From drowsy Drusus would his slumber take, 
 And keep the calves of Porteus broad awake !" 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 SATIRE VI. 
 
 ' But is none worthy to be made a wife 
 In all this town ? suppose her free from strife, 
 Rich, fair, and fruitful, of unblemisli'd life; 
 Chaste as the Sabines, whose prevailing charms 
 Dismiss'd their husbands' and their brothers' arms! 
 Grant her, besides, of noble blood, that ran 
 In ancient veins ere heraldry began : 
 Suppose all these, and take a poet's word, 
 A black swan is not half so rare a bird. 
 A wife, so hung with virtues, such a freight. 
 What mortal shoulders could support the weight ! 
 Some country-girl, scarce to a curt'soy bred, 
 Would I much rather than Cornelia wed ; 
 If supercilious, haughty, proud, and vain. 
 She brought her father's triumphs in her train. 
 Away with all your Carthaginian state. 
 Let vanquish'd Hannibal without doors wait, 
 Too burly and too big to pass my narrow gate.'' 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 SATIRE X. 
 
 "Look round the habitable world, how few 
 Know their own good ; or knowing it, pursue. 
 How void of reason are our hopes and fears ! 
 What in the conduct of our life appears 
 So well design'd, so luckily begun, 
 ])Ut, when wc have our wish, we wish undone ! " 
 
 Dryden.
 
 Pindar. 715 
 
 SATIRE XIV. 
 "Swift from the roof where youtli, I-'uscinus, dwell, 
 Immodest sights, immodest sounds expel ; 
 The place is sacred : Far, fiir hence remove, 
 Ye vernal votaries of illicit love I 
 Ye dangerous knaves, who pander to be fed. 
 And sell yourselves to infamy for bread ! 
 Ki~L'ere>tce to c/ii/dreii, as lo Jleaven, is due : 
 When you would, then, some cLiriing sin ]nn-sae, 
 Think that your infLint offspring eyes the <.\i:.^A ; 
 -And let the thought abate your guilty speed, 
 .And from the headlong steep your steps entice, 
 And check you, tottering on the verge of vice. 
 O yet reflect ! for should he e'er provoke, 
 In riper age, the law's avenging stro';e, 
 (Since not alone in person and in face. 
 But even in morals, lie will prove his race, 
 And, while example acts with fatal force, 
 Side, nay outstrip, you, in the vicious course,) 
 Vexed, you will rave and storm ; perhaps, jirepare, 
 Should threatening fail, to name another heir ! " 
 
 GlKKOKD. 
 
 PINDAR. 
 
 See p, 50. 
 
 \~1V OLYMPIC. 
 
 ' \'e heavenly graces who preside 
 O'er Minyiva's happy soil, that breeds, 
 
 .Swift for the race, the fairest steeds ; 
 And rule the land, where with a gentle tide 
 
 Your lov'd Cej)liisinn waters glide ! 
 To you Orchomenus's towers belong, 
 Then hear, ye goddesses, and aid the song. 
 
 Whatever honours shine below. 
 
 Whatever gifts can move delight. 
 Or soothe the ravish'd soul, or charm tlie >igl 
 
 To you their power of [ileasing owe. 
 
 l''anie, benut}-, wisdom, you bestow ; 
 Nor will the gods the .sacred baiinuet own, 
 iXor on the chorus look ]ai 'pil iops liown. 
 
 If you )our prrstiice li:;\e deiiyM, 
 To rule the lianipu-t, ami the choru.s guide. 
 
 In heaven itself all own your happy eaie ; 
 
 l')le.-.s'd by }o;ir inlhuiice duine. 
 
 There all i> go 'i!. and all is f.iir : 
 I >n iliroiics .suliliiiir \o;i I'lcu' il!iuiiio;i, >liin., 
 I'lac'il ncir Apoll.! \\i;h ;hi' gohU-n lyrr, 
 
 \'oii all lii> h.ir.iioiiy in-pin.,
 
 716 Select Translations. 
 
 And warbled hymns to Jove perpetual sing, 
 To Jove, of heaven the father and the king. 
 
 Now hear, Aglaia, venerable maid ! 
 
 Hear thou that tuneful verse dost love, 
 Euphrosyne ! join your celestial aid, 
 
 Ye daughters of immortal Jove ! 
 Thalia too be present with my lays ; 
 
 Asopicus has rais'd his city's name, 
 
 And, victor in th' Olympic strife, may claim 
 From you his just reward of virtuous praise. 
 
 And thou, O Fame ! this happy triumph spread; 
 
 Fly to the regions of the dead, 
 Through Proserpine's dark empire bear the sound, 
 
 There seek Cleodamus below, 
 And let the pleas'd paternal spirit know, 
 How on the plains of Pisa far renown'd, 
 His son, his youthful son, of matchless speed. 
 
 Bore off from all the victor's meed. 
 And with an olive wreath his envy'd temples crowa'd." 
 
 Hughes. 
 
 2nd. OLYMPIC. 
 
 STROPHE IV. 
 
 But in the ha]ipy fields of liglit, 
 
 When Phojbus with an equal ray, 
 Illuminates the balmy night, 
 
 And gilds the cloudless day, 
 In peaceful, unmolested joy, 
 The good their smiling hours employ. 
 Them no uneasy wants constrain 
 
 To vex th' ungrateful soil, 
 To tempt the dangers of the billowy main, 
 
 And lireak their strength with unalaled toil, 
 A frail disastrous being to maintain. 
 
 But in their joyous calm abodes. 
 The recompense of justice they receive ; 
 
 And in the fellowship of gods, 
 Without a tear eternal ages live. 
 
 While, banished by the fates from joy and rest. 
 Intolerable woes the imj^ious soul infest. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE IV. 
 
 But they who, in true virtue strong, 
 
 The third purgation can endure ; 
 And keep their minds from fraudful wrong 
 
 And guilt's contagion pure ;
 
 Euripides. 717 
 
 They through the starry paths of Jove, 
 To Saturn's blissful seat remove ; 
 Where fragrant breezes, vernal airs, 
 
 Sweet children of the main, 
 Purge the blest island from corroding cares, 
 And fan the bosom of each verdant plain : 
 Whose fertile soil immortal fruitage bears ; 
 
 Trees, from whose flowering branches flow, 
 Arrayed in golden bloom, refulgent beams ; 
 And flowers of golden hue, that blow 
 On the fresh borders of their parent streams. 
 These, by the blest, in solemn triumph worn, 
 Their unpolluted hands and clustering locks adorn. 
 
 West. 
 
 1st. PYTHIAN ODE. 
 
 "Good the gods alone dispense. 
 All arts, all worth from them wc trace ; 
 
 And Wit, and Might, and Eloquence 
 Aro but the gifts divine of beauteous Nature's grace. 
 But thou this prince's praise to sing 
 
 Intent, as some the brazen javelin wield, 
 Urge not thy song beside the field, 
 But forward far, where rivals ne'er can fling. 
 
 Unchanging Fortune's golden shower, 
 With virtue's goodlier boon, the cloudless mind, 
 
 Time on his state benignant pour. 
 And calm Oblivion shade the toils behind." 
 
 Abraham Moore. 
 
 EURIPIDES. 
 
 "There is a slrcamlot issuing from a rock. 
 The village-girls, singing wild madrigals, 
 l)ip their whito vestments in its waters clear, 
 And hang them to the sun. There lirst I saw her 
 Her dark and elo<[ucnl e)X-s, mild, full of lire, 
 'Twas lieaven to look u])on ; and her sweet voice. 
 As tuneable as harp of many strings. 
 At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul ! 
 
 Dear is that valley to tlie murnuiring bees ; 
 
 And all, wlio kudw it, cnnie and come .again. 
 
 The small birds build there ; and, at suuimer-no!.ip,
 
 718 Select Translations. 
 
 Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers, 
 As in the shining grass she sat concealed. 
 
 Sing to herself " 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 (from ' ^Hippolytus" ) 
 
 ' Thou maid of maids, Diana, the goddess whom he fears, 
 Unto thee Ilippolytus this flowery chaplet bears ; 
 From meadows where no shepherd his flock afield e'er drove, 
 From where no woodman's hatchet hath woke the echoing grove. 
 Where o'er the unshorn meadow the wild bee passes free, 
 Where by her river haunts dwells Virgin Modesty ; 
 Where he who knoweth nothing of the Wisdom of the Schools 
 Beareth in a virgin heart the fairest of all rules ; 
 To him 'tis given all freely to cull those self-sown flowers. 
 But evil men must touch not pure Nature's sacred bowers. 
 This to his virgin mistress a virgin hand doth bear 
 A wreath of unsoiled flowers to deck her golden hair. 
 For such alone of mortals can unto her draw nigh. 
 And with that guardian Goddess hold solemn converse high. 
 He ever hears the voice of his own virgin Queen, 
 He hears what others hear not, and sees her though unseen ; 
 He holds his vir!in purpose in freedom unbeguiled. 
 To age and death advancing in innocence a child." 
 
 Isaac Williams. 
 
 CHORAL SONG. 
 {from ' ^Mc'dca . " ) 
 
 " I too have been borne along 
 Through the airy realms of song. 
 Searched I have historic page. 
 Yet ne'er found in any age 
 Power that with thine can vie. 
 
 Masterless Necessity. 
 Thee nor Orpheus' mystic scrolls 
 Graved by him on Thvacian pine, 
 Thee nor Phcebus' art controls, 
 
 ylisculapian art divine. 
 Of the powers thee alone 
 Altars hast not, image, throne : 
 Sacrifices wilt thou none. 
 Pains too sharp for mortal state 
 Lay not on me, mighty Fate . 
 Jove doth aye thy bests fulfil , 
 His to work and thine to will. 
 Hardest iron delved from mine 
 Thou canst break and bend and twine : 
 Harsh in purpose, heart of stone.
 
 Etiripides. 719 
 
 Mercy is to thee unknown. 
 
 Thee, Admetus, in the bands 
 Of her stern unyielding hands 
 Hath she taken ; hut resign 
 Thy life to her it is not tliine 
 I5y thy weeping to restore 
 Those who look on light no more. 
 Even the bright sons of heaven 
 To dimness and to death are given. 
 .She was loved when she was here ; 
 And in death we hold her dear : 
 I-et not her hallowed tomb be past 
 As where the common dead arc cast ; 
 Let her have honour with the blest 
 Who dwell above ; her place of rest 
 When the traveller passeth by. 
 Let him say. 'Within doth lie 
 .She who dared for love to die. 
 Thou who now in bliss dost dwell. 
 Hail, blest soul, and speed as well." 
 
 Dean Alford. 
 
 {From the " Tale of Troy^) 
 
 "Deep in her bosom plunged the shining steel, 
 Her life-blood gushed in streams: yet e'en in death, 
 .Studious of modesty, her beauteous limbs 
 She covered with her robe. " 
 
 DON.NK. 
 
 PLAUTUS. 
 
 {From " TIic Caplivcsy) 
 
 Tyndani<;, " 1 ore this was free 
 
 As your own son. Him has the i)ow'r of war 
 
 i)epriv'd of liberty, as it has me. 
 
 He in my country is a slave, as now 
 
 I am a s!a\e in this. -'I'hcre is indeed 
 
 A God, who hear^ and sees whate'er we dd : 
 
 As you respect me, so will He respect 
 
 Vour lost son. To the wcll-dcseiving. good 
 
 Will happen, to the ill-descrviug, ill. 
 
 Think, that my f.ither feels the want of me, 
 
 And with a I'ang as shar]-! a- you ferl now. 
 
 /F^io. I know it. -iSay, will you subscribe the account 
 ^'our servant gave ?
 
 r20 Select Translatio/is. 
 
 Tyiidarjis. My falhei's rich, I own, 
 
 My family is noble ; -hut I pmy you, 
 Let not the thought of these my riches l^end 
 Your mind to sordid avarice, lest my father, 
 'i'hough I'm his only child, should deem it fitter 
 I were your slave, cloth 'd, pamper'd at your cost, 
 Than beg my l)read in my own country, where 
 It were a foul disgrace. 
 
 Hegjo. Thanks to the gods, 
 
 And to my ancestors, I'm rich enough. 
 Nor do I hold, that every kind of gain 
 Is always serviceable. (Jain, I know, 
 Has render'd many great. But there are times 
 When loss should be preferr'd to gain. I hate it 
 'Tis my aversion : money ! many a man 
 Has it entic'd oft-times to wrong.'* 
 
 Warxkr, 
 
 HOMER. 
 
 See p. 29. 
 ( Fro/n the ^' Itiad.^' ) 
 
 "The woods, and all the great hills near, trembled beneath the weight 
 Of his immortal moving feet : three steps he only took. 
 Before the far-off yEge reach 'd : but, with the fourth, it shook 
 With his dread entry. In the depth of those seas, did he hold 
 His bright and glorious palace, built of never-rusting gold ; 
 And there arriv'd, he put in coach his brazen-footed steeds, 
 All golden-manned, and placed with wings, and all in golden weeds 
 Himself he clothed. The golden scourge, most elegantly done. 
 He took, and mounted to his seat, and then the god begun 
 To drive his chariot through the waves. From whirlpools every way 
 The whales exulted under hiin, and knew their king : the sea 
 ['"or joy did open, and his horse so swift and lightly flew, 
 The under axeltree of brass no drop of water di-ew. " 
 
 Chapman. 
 
 (From the " Battle of the Frogs and Mice.'" ) 
 
 "Once on a time, fatigu'd and out of breath, 
 .\nd just escaj^'d the stretching claws of death, 
 A gentle mouse, whom cats pursu"d in vain. 
 Flies swift of foot across the neighljouring plain. 
 Hangs o'er a brink his eager thirst to cool. 
 And dips his whiskers in the standing pool ; 
 When near a courteous frog advanc'd his head, 
 And from the waters, hoarse resounding, said :
 
 Hesiod. 721 
 
 What art thou, stranger ? what the line you boast ? 
 What chance hath cast thee panting on our coast? 
 With strictest truth let all thy words agree, 
 Nor let me find a faithless mouse in thee. 
 If worthy friendship, proffer'd friendship take, 
 And entering view the pleasurable lake : 
 Range o'er my palace, in my bounty share, 
 And glad return from hospitable fare. 
 This silver realm extends beneath my sway. 
 And me, their monarch, all its frogs obey. 
 Great Physignathus I, from Peleiis' race. 
 Begot in fair Hydromeduse' embrace, 
 where by the nuptial bank that paints his side, 
 The swift Eridanus delights to glide. 
 Thee too, thy form, thy strength, and port proclaim, 
 A scepter'd king ; a son of martial fame ; 
 Then trace thy line, and aid my guessing eyes. 
 Thus ceas'd the frog, and thus the mouse replies." 
 
 Parnell. 
 
 HESIOD. 
 
 See p. 43. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE GODS AND TITANS. 
 
 (From the " Thcogony,'''' ) 
 
 " Hence through the vault of heaven huge Atlas rears 
 His giant limbs, and props the golden spheres : 
 Here sable Niglit, and here the beamy l)ay. 
 Lodge and dislodge, alternate in thoir sway. 
 A brazen port the varying powers divides : 
 When Day forth issues, here the Night resides ; 
 And when Night veils the skies, ol)sequious Day, 
 Re-entering, plunges from the starry way. 
 She from her lamp, with beaming radiance bright, 
 Pours o'er th' expanded earth a flood of light : 
 But Night, by Sleep attended, rides in shades. 
 Brother of Death, and all that breathes invades : 
 r'roni her foul womb they sprung, resistless powers, 
 Nurs'd in the horrors of Tarlarean bowers, 
 Remote from Day, when with her flaming wheels 
 She mounts tlie skies, or paints the western hills : 
 With downy fo()lste[K Sleep in silence glides 
 O'er tlie wide earth, and o'er the spacious tides ; 
 'J iie friend of life ! Death unrelenting bears 
 An iron heart, ami laughs at human cares ; 
 She makes the mouldering race of man lier prey, 
 .\nd ev'n th' immortal ]iowers detest her sway. 
 
 Broome.
 
 722 Sekct Translations. 
 
 TYRT.EUS. 
 
 THE PRAISE OP HEROIC VIRTUE. 
 
 " O Spartan youths ! what facinating charms 
 Have froze your blood? why rust your idle arms? 
 When with awaken'd courage will you go, 
 And minds resolv'd, to meet the threatening foe ? 
 What ! shall our vile lethargic sloth betray 
 To greedy neighbours an unregarded prey ? 
 Or can you see their armies rush from far, 
 Ye gods ! how great, how glorious 'tis to see 
 The warrior-hero fight for liberty, 
 For his dear children, for his tender wife, 
 For all the valued joys, and soft supports of life ! 
 Then let him draw his sword, and take the field, 
 And fortify his breast behind the spacious sheild . 
 Nor fear to die ; in vain you shun your fate, 
 Nor can you shorten, nor prolong its date ; 
 For life's a measur'd race, and he that flies 
 From darts and fighting foes, at home inglorious dies 
 No greiving crowds his obsequeies attend ; 
 But all applaud and weep the soldier's end, 
 Who, desperately brave, in fight sustains 
 Inflicted wounds, and honourable stains. 
 And falls a sacrifice to glories charms : 
 But if a just success shall crown his arms, 
 For his return the rescued people wait. 
 To see the guardian genius of the state ; 
 With rapture viewing his majestic face. 
 His dautless mien, and every martial grace, 
 They'll bless the toils he for the safety bore, 
 Admire them living, and when dead adore. " 
 
 Hughes. 
 
 ALCMAN. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT, 
 
 " Now o'er the drowsy earth still Night prevails. 
 Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales, 
 The rugged cliffs and hollow glens ; 
 The wild beasts slumber in their dens ; 
 The cattle on the hill. Deep in the sea 
 The countless finny face and monster brood 
 Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee 
 Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood 
 No more with noisy hum of insect rings ; 
 And all the feather'd tribes, by gentle sleep subdued, 
 Roost in the glade, and hang their drooping wings. " 
 
 Mure.
 
 Sappho. 723 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 A HYMN TO VENUS. 
 
 " O Venus, beauty of the skies, 
 To wbom a thousand temples rise, 
 Gaily false in gentle smiles, 
 Full of love-perplexing wiles ; 
 O goddess ! from my heart remove 
 The wasting cares and pains of love. 
 
 If ever thou hast kindly heard 
 A song in soft distress preferr'd, 
 Propitious to my tuneful vow, 
 
 gentle goddess ! hear me now 
 Descend, thou bright, immortal guest, 
 In all thy radiant charms confess'd. 
 
 Thou once didst leave almighty Jove, 
 And all the golden roofs above : 
 The car thy wanton sparrows drew, 
 Hovering m air they lightly flew ; 
 As to my bower they wing d their way, 
 
 1 saw their quivering pinions play. 
 
 The birds dismissal (while you remain ) 
 Bore back their empty car again : 
 Then you with looks divinely mild. 
 In every heavenly feature smil'd, 
 And ask'd what new complaints I made, 
 And why I call'd you to my aid ? 
 
 What phrensy in my bosom rag'd, 
 And by what cure to be assuag'd ? 
 What gentle youth I would allure. 
 Whom in my artful toils secure? 
 Who does thy tender heart subdue. 
 Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who? 
 
 Though now he shuns thy longmg arms, 
 lie soon shall court thy slighed charms ; 
 Though now thy offerings he despise, 
 lie soon to thee shall sacrifice ; 
 Though now he freeze, he soon shall I)urn, 
 And be thy victim in his turn. 
 
 Celestial visitant, once more 
 Thy needfvd i^rcsence I implore ! 
 In jiity come and ease my grief 
 Ering my distcm]ier'd soul relief, 
 P'avour thy suppliant's hidden fires, 
 And give me all my lieart desires." 
 
 A. PiiiLLir
 
 724 Select Translations. 
 
 ARCHILOCHUS. 
 
 ' My soul, my soul, care-worn, bereft of rest, 
 Arise ! and front the foe with dauntless breast ; 
 Take thy firm stand amidst his fierce alarms ; 
 Secure, with inborn valour meet his arms. 
 Nor, conquering, mount vain-glory's glittering steep ; 
 Nor, conquer'd, yield, fall down at home, and weep. 
 Await the turns of life with duteous awe ; 
 Know, Eevolution is great Nature's law." 
 
 Marquis of Wellesley. 
 
 SIMONIDES OF AMORGOS. 
 
 (From the poem ''On Women.) 
 
 " Next in the lot a gallant dame we see. 
 Sprung from a mare of noble pedigree. 
 No servile work her spirit proud can brook ; 
 Her hands were never taught to bake or cook. 
 The vapour of the oven makes her ill ; 
 She scorns to empty slops or turn the mill. 
 No household washings her fair skin deface. 
 Her own ablutions are her chief solace. 
 Three baths a day, with balms of perfumes rare, 
 Refresh her tender limbs : her long rich hair 
 Each time she combs, and decks with blooming flowers. 
 No spouse more fit than she the idle hours 
 Of wealthy lords or kings to recreate. 
 And grace the splendour of their courtly state. 
 For men of humbler sort, no better guide 
 Heaven, in its wrath, to ruin can provide." 
 
 Mure. 
 
 EPICHARMUS. 
 
 ON PEDIGREE. 
 
 " My Mother ! if Ihou love me, name no more. 
 My noble birth ! Sounding at every breath 
 My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly, 
 As to their only refuge, all from whom 
 Nature withholds all good besides ; they Woast 
 Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
 Of their forefathers, and, from age to age 
 Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race : 
 But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name. 
 Derived from no forefathers ? Such a man 
 Lives not ; for how could such be born at all ? 
 And, if it chance that, native of a land 
 Far distant, or in infancy deprived
 
 CalUmachus. Moschus. 725 
 
 Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace 
 His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
 From baser ancestry than theirs who can ? 
 My mother ? he whom nature at his birth 
 Endowed with virtuous qualities, although 
 An yEthiop and a slave, is nobly born." 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 CALLIMACHUS. 
 
 TO APOLLO. 
 
 (front, the second hymn.) 
 
 "Sublime at Jove's right hand Apollo sits, 
 And thence distributes honour, gracious king, 
 And theme of verse perpetual. From his robe 
 Flows light ineffable : his harp, his quiver, 
 And Lictian bow are gold ; with golded sandals 
 I lis feet are shod ; how rich : how beautiful ! 
 Beneath his steps the yellow mineral rises, 
 And earth reveals her treasures. Youth and beauty 
 Eternal deck his cheeks : from his fair head 
 Perfumes distil their sweets ; and cheerful health, 
 I lis duteous handmaid, through the air improv'd, 
 .With lavish hand diffuses scents ambrosial." 
 
 Prior. 
 
 MOSCHUS. 
 
 " I slept when Venus enter'd : to my bed 
 A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, 
 A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said : 
 
 'She]iher(l, receive my little one ! I bring 
 An untaught love, wliom thou must teach to sing.' 
 She said, and lefi liiin. I, suspecting nought. 
 Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, 
 How reed to reed Pan first witli osier bound, 
 How, Pallas form'd the in|)e of softest sound. 
 How Hermes gave the lute, and liow the quire 
 Of Phoebus owe to I'hcebus' self the lyre. 
 Such were my themes ; my themes nought heeded li 
 But ditties sang of amorous sort to me, 
 The pangs that mortals and itiunortals prove 
 From Venus' influence and the darts of love. 
 Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; 
 His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot." 
 
 COWPEK.
 
 726 Select Translations. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 (From "TheKnighisP) 
 
 ' ' Let us praise our famous fathers, let their glory be recorded , 
 On Minerva's mighty mantle consecrated and embroidered. 
 That with many a naval action, and with infantry by land, 
 Still contending, never ending, strove for empire and command. 
 When they met the foe, disdaining to compute a poor account 
 Of the number of their armies, of their muster and amount : 
 But whene'er at wrestling matches they were worsted in the fray, 
 Wiped their shoulders from the dust, denied the fall, and fought away 
 Then the generals never claimed precedence, or a separate seat, 
 Like the present mighty captains, or the public wine or meat. 
 As for us, the sole pretension suited to our birth and years, 
 Is with resolute intention, as determined volunteers. 
 To defend our fields and altars, as our fathers did before ; 
 Claiming as a recompense this easy boon, and nothing more : 
 When our trials with peace are ended, not to view us with malignity, 
 When we're curried, sleek and pampered, prancing in our pride and die:nity." 
 
 Frere. 
 
 {From "TAe Clouds,") 
 
 "Eternal clouds! 
 
 Rise we to mortal view, 
 Embodied in bright shapes of dewy sheen, 
 Leaving the depths serene 
 W^here our loud-sounding Father Ocean dwells, 
 For the wood-crowned summits of the hills : 
 
 Thence shall our glance command 
 The beetling crags which sentinel the land, 
 
 The teeming earth. 
 
 The crops we bring to birth ; 
 Thence shall we hear 
 The music of the ever-flowing streams. 
 The low deep thunders of the booming sea. 
 
 Lo, bright Eye of Day unwearied beams ! 
 
 Shedding our veil of storms 
 
 From our immortal forms. 
 We scan with keen-eyed gaze this nether sphere." 
 
 Rev. Lucas Colli xs. 
 
 MENANDER. 
 
 Fond youth ! who dream'st that hoarded gold 
 
 Is needful, not alone to pay 
 For all thy various items sold. 
 
 To serve the wants of every day ; 
 
 Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat. 
 For savoury viands season'd high ; 
 
 But somewhat more important yet 
 I tell thee what it cannot buy.
 
 ApoUonius Rhodhis. 727 
 
 No treasure, hadst thou more amass'd 
 
 Than fame to Tantalus assign'd 
 Would save thee from a tomb at last, 
 
 But thou must leave it all behind. 
 
 I give thee, therefore, counsel wise ; 
 
 Confide not vainly in thy store, 
 However large much less despise 
 
 Others comparatively poor ; 
 
 But in thy more exalted state 
 
 A just and equal temper show, 
 That all who see thee rich and great, 
 
 May deem thee worthy to be so. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 APOLLONIUS RHODIUS. 
 
 THE STORY OF TALUS. 
 (Fro7n the fourth Book.) 
 
 " And now her magic spells Medea tries, 
 Bids the red fiends, the dogs of Orcus rise, 
 That, starting dreadful from th' infernal shade, 
 Ride heaven in storms, and all that breathes, invade; 
 Thrice, she applies the power of magic prayer. 
 Thrice hellward bending, mutters charms in air ; 
 Then, turning tow' rd the foe, bids mischief fly: 
 And looks destruction as she points her eye. 
 Then spectres, rising Tartarean bowers. 
 Howl round in air, or grin along the shores ; 
 While, tearing up whole hills, the giant throws, 
 Outrageous, rocks on rocks, to crush the foes : 
 But, frantic as he strides, a sudden wound 
 Bursts the life-vein, and blood o'erspreads the ground : 
 As from the furnace, in a burning flood, 
 Pours molten lead, so pours in streams his blood ; 
 And now he staggers, as the spirit flies, 
 He faints, he sinks, he tumbles, and he dies, 
 As some huge cedar on a mountain's l)row, 
 Pierc'd by the steel expects the final blow, 
 A while it totters with alternate sway. 
 Till freshening breezes througli the branches play; 
 Then, tumbling downward witli a tlumdering sound 
 Falls headlong, and o'erspreads a l)readth of ground : 
 So, as the giant falls, the ocean roars ; 
 Out-slrctch'd he lies, and covers half the shores. " 
 
 Broome.
 
 728 Select Translations. 
 
 PHILEMON. 
 
 " Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, 
 And give them bulk l)eyond what nature meant. 
 A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry 
 
 'He 's dead indeed, but he was born to die' 
 Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
 And burden of the loss, is just and wise. 
 But to exclaim, 'Ah ! wherefore was I born, 
 Thus to be left for ever thus forlorn ? ' 
 Who thus laments his loss invites distress, 
 ^nd magnifies a woe that might be less, 
 Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd, 
 And leaving reason's remedy behind." 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 SENECA. 
 
 " The night is gone, and dreadful day begins at length t' appear, 
 j\nd Phoebus, all bedimm'd with clouds, himself aloft doth rear: 
 And gliding forth with deadly hue a doleful blase in skies, 
 Doth bear: great terror and dismay to the beholder's eyes ! 
 Now shall the houses void be seen, with Plague devoured quite, 
 And slaughter which the night hath made, shall day bring forth to light. 
 Doth any in princely throne rejoice ? O brittle joy ! 
 How many ills, how fair a face, and yet how much annoy. 
 In Thee doth lurk, and hidden lies? What heaps of endless strife? 
 They judge amiss, that deem the Prince to have the hajipy life." 
 
 Nevyle. 
 
 PH^DRUS. 
 
 OPrORTUNITY. 
 
 "Bald, naked, of a human shape, 
 With fleet wings ready to escaj^e. 
 Upon a razor's edge his toes. 
 And lock that on his forehead grows 
 Him hold, when seized, for goodness' sake. 
 For Jove himself cannot retake 
 The fugitive when once he 's gone. 
 The picture that we here have drawn, 
 Is Opportunity so brief. 
 
 The ancients, in a bas-relief. 
 Thus made an effig>' of Time, 
 That every one might use their prime ; 
 Nor e'er impede, by dull delay, 
 Th' effectual business of to-day. " 
 
 C. Smart,
 
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