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ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITANNICA

DICTIONARY

OF SCIENCE AND MISCELLANEOUS
LITERATURE

REVISED AND IMPROVED

THE EIGHTH EDITION

WITH AN ADDITIONAL VOLUME

VOL. XXIX

EDITED BY THE EDITORS

PRINTED BY

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IN THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

1867

OXFORD

Encyclopaedia Britannica:

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DICTIONARY

OF

ARTS, SCIENCES, AND MISCELLANEOUS
LITERATURE;

ENLARGED AND IMPROVED.

THE FIFTH EDITION.

Illustrated with nearly six hundred Engravings.

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DR. A

DICTIONARY

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ARTS, SCIENCES, AND MISCELLANEOUS

LITERATURE:

ENLARGED AND IMPROVED.

THE FIFTH EDITION.

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ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITANNICA.

POETRY, PART II. Sect. 2. continued.

THE variety of subjects, which are allowed the lyric poet, makes it necessary to consider this species of poetry under the following heads, viz. the sublime ode, the lesser ode, and the song. We shall begin with the lowest, and proceed to that which is more eminent.

1. Songs are little poetical compositions, usually set to a tune, and frequently sung in company by way of entertainment and diversion. Of these we have in our language a great number; but, considering that number, not many which are excellent; for, as the duke of Buckingham observes,

Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art.

The song admits of almost any subject; but the greatest part of them turn either upon love, contentment, or the pleasures of a country life, and drinking. Be the subject, however, what it will, the verses should be easy, natural, and flowing, and contain a certain harmony, so that poetry and music may be agreeably united. In these compositions, as in all others, obscene and profane expressions should be carefully avoided, and indeed every thing that tends to take off that respect which is due to religion and virtue, and to encourage vice and immorality. As the best songs in our language are already in every hand, it would seem superfluous to insert examples. For further precepts, however, as well as selected examples, in this species of composition, we may refer the reader to the elegant Essay on Song Writing, by Mr Aikin.

111
The distinguishing character of the lesser ode.

II. The lesser ode. The distinguishing character of this is sweetness; and as the pleasure we receive from this sort of poem arises principally from its soothing and affecting the passions, great regard should be paid to the language as well as to the thoughts and numbers.

Th' expression should be easy, fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly:
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As, though hard wrought, may seem by chance to fall.

D. BUCKINGHAM'S Essay.

The style, indeed, should be easy: but it may be also florid and figurative. It solicits delicacy, but disdains affectation. The thoughts should be natural, chaste, and elegant; and the numbers various, smooth, and harmonious. A few examples will sufficiently explain what we mean.

VOL. XVII. Part I.

Longinus has preserved a fragment of Sappho, an ancient Greek poetess, which is in great reputation amongst the critics, and has been so happily translated by Mr Philips as to give the English reader a just idea of the spirit, ease, and elegance of that admired author; and show how exactly she copied nature. To enter into the beauties of this ode, we must suppose a lover sitting by his mistress, and thus expressing his passion:

Blest as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And sees and hears thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd, the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame:
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and dy'd away.

123
After this instance of the Sapphic ode, it may not be improper to speak of that sort of ode which is called Anacreontic; being written in the manner and taste of Anacreon, a Greek poet, famous for the delicacy of his wit, and the exquisite, yet easy and natural, turn of his poetry. We have several of his odes still extant, and many modern ones in imitation of him, which are mostly composed in verses of seven syllables, or three feet and a half.

We shall give the young student one or two examples of his manner from Mr Fawkes's excellent translation.

The following ode on the power of gold, which had been often attempted but with little success, this gentleman has translated very happily.

Love's a pain that works our wo;
Not to love is painful too:
But, alas! the greatest pain
Waits the love that meets disdain.
What avails ingenuous worth,
Sprightly wit, or noble birth?
All these virtues useless prove;
Gold alone engages love.

A

May

May he be completely curs'd,
Who the sleeping mischief first
Wak'd to life, and, vile before,
Stamp'd with worth the fordid ore.
Gold creates in brethren strife;
Gold destroys the parent's life;
Gold produces civil jars,
Murders, massacres, and wars;
But the worst effect of gold,
Love, alas! is bought and sold.

His ode on the vanity of riches is of a piece with the above, and conveys a good lesson to those who are over anxious for wealth.

If the treasure'd gold could give
Man a longer term to live,
I'd employ my utmost care
Still to keep, and still to spare;
And, when death approach'd, would say,
"Take thy fee, and walk away."
But since riches cannot save
Mortals from the gloomy grave,
Why should I myself deceive,
Vainly sigh, and vainly grieve?
Death will surely be my lot,
Whether I am rich or not.
Give me freely while I live
Generous wines, in plenty give
Soothing joys my life to cheer,
Beauty kind, and friends sincere;
Happy! could I ever find
Friends sincere, and beauty kind.

But two of the most admired, and perhaps the most imitated, of Anacreon's odes, are that of Mars wounded by one of the darts of Love, and Cupid stung by a Bee; both which are wrought up with fancy and delicacy, and are translated with elegance and spirit.—Take that of Cupid stung by a bee.

Once as Cupid, tir'd with play,
On a bed of roses lay,
A rude bee, that slept unseen,
The sweet breathing buds between,
Stung his finger, cruel chance!
With its little pointed lance.
Straight he fills the air with cries,
Weeps, and sobs, and runs, and flies;
Till the god to Venus came,
Lovely, laughter-loving dame:
Then he thus began to plain;
"Oh! undone—I die with pain—
Dear mamma, a serpent small,
Which a bee the ploughman call,
Imp'd with wings, and arm'd with dart,
Oh!—has stung me to the heart."
Venus thus reply'd, and smile'd:
"Dry those tears for shame! my child;
If a bee can wound so deep,
Causing Cupid thus to weep,

"Think, O think! what cruel pains
He that's stung by thee sustains."

Among the most successful of this poet's English imitators may be reckoned Dr Johnson and Mr Prior. The following ode on Evening by the former of these writers has, if we mistake not, the very spirit and air of Anacreon.

Evening now from purple wings
Sheds the grateful gifts she brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead;
Cooling breezes shake the reed;
Shake the reed and curl the stream
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam;
Near the chequer'd lonely grove
Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love.
Stella, thither let us stray!
Lightly o'er the dewy way.
Phœbus drives his burning car
Hence, my lovely Stella, far:
In his stead the queen of night
Round us pours a lambent light;
Light that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow:
Let us now, in whisper'd joy,
Evening's silent hours employ;
Silence best, and conscious shades,
Please the hearts that love invades:
Other pleasures give them pain;
Lovers all but love disdain.

But of all the imitations of the playful bard of Greece that we have ever met with, the most perfect is the following Anacreontic by the regent duke of Orleans.

I.
Je suis né pour les plaisirs;
Bien fou que s'en passe;
Je ne veux pas les choisir;
Souvent le choix m'embarrasse:
Aime-t'on? J'aime foulement;
Bois-t'on? J'ai la verre à la main;
Je tiens par tout ma place.

II.
Dormir est un temps perdu;
Faut-il qu'on s'y livre?
Sommeil, prends ce qui t'est du;
Mais attends que je sois ivre:
Saisis moi dans cet instant;
Fais moi dormir promptement;
Je suis pressé de vivre.

III.
Mais si quelque objet charmant,
Dans un songe aimable,
Vient d'un plaisir séduisant
M'offrir l'image agréable;
Sommeil, allons doucement;
L'erreur est en ce moment
Un bonheur véritable.

Translation of the Regent's Anacreontic (E).

Frolic and free, for pleasure born,
The self-denying fool I scorn.

(E) We give this translation, both because of its excellence and because it is said to have been the production of no less a man than the late Lord Chatham.

The proffer'd joy I ne'er refuse;
'Tis oft-times troublesome to chuse.
Lov'st thou, my friend? I love at sight:
Drink'st thou? this bumper does thee right.
At random with the stream I flow,
And play my part where'er I go.

Great God of Sleep, since we must be
Oblig'd to give some hours to thee,
Invade me not till the full bowl
Glow in my cheek, and warms my soul.
Be that the only time to snore,
When I can love and drink no more:
Short, very short, then be thy reign;
For I'm in haste to live again.

But O! if melting in my arms,
In some soft dream, with all her charms,
The nymph belov'd should then surprise,
And grant what waking she denies;
Then prithee, gentle Slumber, stay;
Slowly, ah slowly, bring the day:
Let no rude noise my bliss destroy;
Such sweet delusion's real joy.

Thy breath to Eliza's no fragrance hath is't,
And but dull is thy bloom to her cheek's blushing tint.
Yet, alas! my fair flow'r, that bloom will decay,
And all thy lov'd beauties soon wither away;
Tho' pluck'd by her hand, to whose touch, we must own,
Harsh and rough is the cygnet's most delicate down:
Thou too, snowy hand; nay, I mean not to preach;
But the rose, lovely moralist, suffer to teach.
"Extol not, fair maiden, thy beauties o'er mine;
They too are short-liv'd, and they too must decline;
And small, in conclusion, the difference appears,
In the bloom of few days, or the bloom of few years!
But remember a virtue the rose hath to boast,
—Its fragrance remains when its beauties are lost!"

We come now to those odes of the more florid and Odes more
figurative kind, of which we have many in our language florid and
that deserve particular commendation. Mr Warton's figurative
Ode to Fancy has been justly admired by the best judges;
for though it has a distant resemblance of Milton's
I Allegro and II Pensero, yet the work is original; the
thoughts are mostly new and various, and the language
and numbers elegant, expressive, and harmonious.

We have mentioned Prior as an imitator of Anacreon;
but the reader has by this time had a sufficient specimen
of Anacreontics. The following Answer to Cloc jealous,
which was written when Prior was sick, has much of
the elegant tenderness of Sappho.

Yes, fairest proof of beauty's pow'r,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour:
And I have liv'd: and we must part.
While now I take my last adieu,
Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;
Lest yet my half-clos'd eye may view
On earth an object worth its care.
From jealousy's tormenting strife
For ever be thy bosom freed;
That nothing may disturb thy life,
Content I hasten to the dead.
Yet when some better-fated youth
Shall with his am'rous partly move thee,
Reflect one moment on his truth
Who, dying, thus persists to love thee.

There is much of the softness of Sappho, and the
sweetness of Anacreon and Prior, in the following ode,
which is ascribed to the unfortunate Dr Dodd; and
was written in compliment to a lady, who, being sick,
had sent the author a moss rose-bud, instead of making
his family a visit. This piece is particularly to be
esteemed for the just and striking moral with which it
is pointed.

The flightest of favours bestow'd by the fair,
With rapture we take, and with triumph we wear;
But a moss-woven rose-bud, Eliza, from thee,
A well-pleasing gift to a monarch would be.
—Ah! that illness, too cruel, forbidding should stand,
And refuse me the gift from thy own lovely hand!
With joy I receive it, with pleasure will view,
Reminded of thee, by its odour and hue:
"Sweet rose, let me tell thee, tho' charming thy bloom,
Tho' thy fragrance excels Seba's richest perfume;

O parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flow'rs and honey from the rook.
O nymph, with loosely flowing hair,
With bushin'd leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow:
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Through air, and over earth and sea;
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water, you reside;
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between;
'Midst forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cott was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer! tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where fields and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev'ning watching thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild poetic dream;

In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove ;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear ;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
By the sweetly soothing sound !
Me, goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead ;
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court ;
Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads ;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lift'ning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ ;
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of Folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy !
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh.
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels, and the house of wo ;
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek :
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wint'ry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tott'ring wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire ;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat ;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows shrieks I hear :
Give me another horse, I cry ;
Lo, the base Gallie squadrons fly !
Whence is this rage ?—what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away ?
Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war ;
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where tumult and destruction reign ;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded flee,
Tramples the dying and the dead ;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fallen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield !
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun.
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou can'st place me near my love ;
Can'st fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss ;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence !

When young ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose ;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale ;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks ;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold ;
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid !
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain ;
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.
O hear our pray'r, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespeare's tomb,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre ;
Who with some new, unequal'd song,
May rise above the rhyming throng :
O'er all our lift'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain ;
With terror shake, with pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t'attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk ;
Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart ;
Like lightning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce ;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critics studied laws :
O let each muse's fame increase !
O bid Britannia rival Greece !

The following ode, written by Mr Smart on the 5th of December (being the birth-day of a beautiful young lady), is much to be admired for the variety and harmony of the numbers, as well as for the beauty of the thoughts, and the elegance and delicacy of the compliment. It has great fire, and yet great sweetness, and is the happy issue of genius and judgment united.

Hail eldest of the monthly train,
Sire of the winter drear,
December ! in whose iron reign
Expires the chequer'd year.
Hush all the blust'ring blasts that blow,
And proudly plum'd in silver snow,
Smile gladly on this blest of days ;
The livery'd clouds shall on thee wait,
And Phebus shine in all his state
With more than summer rays.
Though jocund June may justly boast
Long days and happy hours ;
Though August be Pomona's host,
And May be crown'd with flow'r's :

Tell June his fire and crimson dyes,
By Harriot's blush, and Harriot's eyes,
Eclips'd and vanquish'd, fade away;
Tell August, thou canst let him see
A richer, riper fruit than he,
A sweeter flow'r than May.

127
A pastoral
and elegiac
ode.

The ensuing ode, written by Mr Collins on the death of Mr Thomson, is of the pastoral and elegiac kind, and both picturesque and pathetic. To perceive all the beauties of this little piece, which are indeed many, we must suppose them to have been delivered on the river Thames near Richmond.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's silvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp * shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in pity's ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing car,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire †,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will ev'ry dirge avail?
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye,
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose fullen tide
No fedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now wait me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.
And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dim night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu!
The genial meads, assign'd to blest
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
Their hands, and shepherd girls, shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;
O vales and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!

Under this species of the ode, notice ought to be taken of those written on divine subjects, and which are usually called hymns. Of these we have many in our language, but none perhaps that are so much admired as Mr Addison's. The beauties of the following hymn are too well known, and too obvious, to need any commendation; we shall only observe, therefore, that in this hymn (intended to display the power of the Almighty)

he seems to have had a psalm of David in his view, which says, that "the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handywork."

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim:
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's pow'r display,
And publishes to ev'ry land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the lift'ning earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What tho' in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What tho' nor real voice or sound
Amid their radiant orb be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."

The following pastoral hymn is a version of the 23d Psalm by Mr Addison; the peculiar beauties of which have occasioned many translations; but we have seen none that is so poetical and perfect as this. And in justice to Dr Boyce, we must observe, that the music he has adapted to it is so sweet and expressive, that we know not which is to be most admired, the poet or the musician.

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wand'ring steps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers soft and slow
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Tho' in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill:
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Tho' in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd;
And streams shall murmur all around.

129
III. We are now to speak of those odes which are the sub-
lime and noble kind, and distinguished from the sub-
others by their elevation of thought and diction, as well
by the variety or irregularity of their numbers as the
frequent.

Of Lyric Poetry. frequent transitions and bold excursions with which they are enriched.

To give the young student an idea of the sudden and frequent transitions, digressions, and excursions, which are admitted into the odes of the ancients, we cannot do better than refer him to the celebrated song or ode of Moses; which is the oldest that we know of and was penned by that divine author immediately after the children of Israel crossed the Red sea.

At the end of this song, we are told, that "Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea."

From this last passage it is plain, that the ancients very early called in music to the aid of poetry; and that their odes were usually sung, and accompanied with their lutes, harps, lyres, timbrels, and other instruments: nay, so essential, and in such reputation, was music held by the ancients, that we often find in their lyric poets, addresses or invocations to the harp, the lute, or the lyre; and it was probably owing to the frequent use made of the last-mentioned instrument with the ode, that this species of writing obtained the name of Lyric poetry.

This ode, or hymn, which some believe was composed by Moses in Hebrew verse, is incomparably better than any thing the heathen poets have produced of the kind, and is by all good judges considered as a master-piece of ancient eloquence. The thoughts are noble and sublime; the style is magnificent and expressive; the figures are bold and animated: the transitions and excursions are sudden and frequent: but they are short, and the poet, having digressed for a moment, returns immediately to the great object that excited his wonder, and elevated his soul with joy and gratitude. The images fill the mind with their greatness, and strike the imagination in a manner not to be expressed.

If there be any thing that in sublimity approaches to it, we must look for it in the east, where perhaps we shall find nothing superior to the following Hindoo hymn to Narayana, or "the spirit of God," taken, as Sir William Jones informs us, from the writings of the ancient Bramins.

Spirit of spirits, who, through every part
Of space expanded, and of endless time,
Beyond the reach of lab'ring thought sublime,
Bad'st uprear into beauteous order start;

Before heav'n was, thou art.
Ere spheres beneath us roll'd, or spheres above,
Ere earth in firmamental ether hung,
Thou sat'st alone, till, through thy mystic love,
Things unexisting to existence sprung,

And grateful descant sung.
Omniscient Spirit, whose all-ruling pow'r
Bids from each sense bright emanations beam;
Glow in the rainbow, sparkles in the stream,

Smiles in the bud, and glitters in the flow'r
That crowns each vernal bow'r;
Sighs in the gale, and warbles in the throat
Of every bird that hails the bloomy spring,
Or tells his love in many a liquid note,
Whilst envious artists touch the rival string,
Till rocks and forests ring;

Breathes in rich fragrance from the sandal grove,
Or where the precious musk-deer playful rove;
In dulcet juice, from clust'ring fruit distils,
And burns fabulous in the tassle clove:

Safe banks and verd'rous hills
Thy present influence fills:
In air, in floods, in caverns, woods, and plains,
Thy will inspires all, thy sovereign Maya reigns.
Blue crystal vault, and elemental fires,
That in th' ethereal fluid blaze and breathe;
Thou, tossing main, whose snaky branches wreathes
This penfile orb with intertwisting gyres;
Mountains, whose lofty spires,
Presumptuous, rear their summits to the skies,
And blend their em'rald hue with sapphire light;
Smooth meads and lawns, that glow with varying
dyes

Of dew-bespangled leaves and blossoms bright,
Hence! vanish from my sight
Delusive pictures! unsubstantial shows!
My soul absorb'd one only Being knows,
Of all perceptions one abundant source,
Whence ev'ry object, ev'ry moment flows:
Suns hence derive their force,
Hence planets learn their course;
But suns and fading worlds I view no more;
God only I perceive; God only I adore (F).

We come now to the Pindaric ode, which (if we except the hymns in the Old Testament, the psalms of David, and such hymns of the Hindoos as that just quoted) is the most exalted part of lyric poetry; and was so called from Pindar, an ancient Greek poet, who is celebrated for the boldness of his flights, the impetuosity of his style, and the seeming wildness and irregularity that runs through his compositions, and which are said to be the effect of the greatest art. See PINDAR.

The odes of Pindar were held in such high estimation by the ancients, that it was fabled, in honour of their sweetness, that the bees, while he was in the cradle, brought honey to his lips: nor did the victors at the Olympic and other games think the crown a sufficient reward for their merit, unless their achievements were celebrated in Pindar's songs; most wisely prefacing, that the first would decay, but the other would endure for ever.

This poet did not always write his odes in the same measure, or with the same intention with regard to their being sung. For the ode inscribed to Diagoras (the concluding stanza of which we inserted at the beginning of this section) is in heroic measure, and all the stanzas are equal: there are others also, as Mr. Weir observes, made

(F) For the philosophy of this ode, which represents the Deity as the soul of the world, or rather as the only Being (the $\backslash alpha$ of the Greeks), see METAPHYSICS, No. 269. and PHILOSOPHY, No. 6.

made up of strophes and antistrophes, without any epode; and some composed of strophes only, of different lengths and measures: but the greatest part of his odes are divided into strophe, antistrophe, and epode; in order, as Mr Congreve conjectures, to their being sung, and addressed by the performers to different parts of the audience. "They were sung (says he) by a chorus, and adapted to the lyre, and sometimes to the lyre and pipe. They consisted oftentimes of three stanzas. The first was called the strophe, from the version or circular motion of the fingers in that stanza from the right hand to the left. The second stanza was called the antistrophe, from the contraversion of the chorus; the fingers in performing that, turning from the left hand to the right, contrary always to their motion in the strophe. The third stanza was called the epode (it may be as being the after-song), which they sung in the middle, neither turning to one hand nor the other. But Dr Wells's * friend is of opinion, that the performers also danced one way while they were singing the strophe, and danced back as they sung the antistrophe, till they came to the same place again, and then standing still they sung the epode. He has translated a passage from the Scholion on Hephaestron, in proof of his opinion; and observes, that the dancing the strophe and antistrophe in the same space of ground, and we may suppose the same space of time also, shows why those two parts consisted of the same length and measure.

As the various measures of Pindar's odes have been the means of so far misleading some of our modern poets, as to induce them to call compositions Pindaric odes, that were not written in the method of Pindar, it is necessary to be a little more particular on this head, and to give an example from that poet, the more effectually to explain his manner; which we shall take from the translation of Dr Wells.

This ode is ascribed to Aristagoras, upon occasion of his entering on his office of president or governor of the island of Tenedos: so that, although it is placed among the Nemean odes, it has no sort of relation to those games, and is indeed properly an inauguration ode, composed to be sung by a chorus at the sacrifices and the feasts made by Aristagoras and his colleagues, in the town-hall, at the time of their being invested with the magistracy, as is evident from many expressions in the first strophe and antistrophe.

Pindar opens this ode with an invocation to Vesta (the goddess who presided over the courts of justice, and whose statue and altar were for that reason placed in the town-halls, or Prytaneums, as the Greeks called them), beseeching her to receive favourably Aristagoras and his colleagues, who were then coming to offer sacrifices to her, upon their entering on their office of Prytans or magistrates of Tenedos; which office continuing for a year, he begs the goddess to take Aristagoras under her protection during that time, and to conduct him to the end of it without trouble or disgrace. From Aristagoras, Pindar turns himself in the next place to his father Arceilas, whom he pronounces happy, as well upon account of his son's merit and honour, as upon his own great endowments and good fortune: such as

beauty, strength, courage, riches, and glory, resulting from his many victories in the games. But lest he should be too much puff'd up with these praises, he reminds him at the same time of his mortality, and tells him that his clothing of flesh is perishable, that he must ever long be clothed with earth, the end of all things; and yet, continues he, it is but justice to praise and celebrate the worthy and deserving, who from good citizens ought to receive all kinds of honour and commendation; as Aristagoras, for instance, who hath rendered both himself and his country illustrious by the many victories he hath obtained, to the number of sixteen, over the neighbouring youth, in the games exhibited in and about his own country. From whence, says the poet, I conclude he would have come off victorious even in the Pythian and Olympic games, had he not been restrained from engaging in those famous lists by the too timid and cautious love of his parents. Upon which he falls into a moral reflection upon the vanity of man's hopes and fears; by the former of which they are oftentimes excited to attempts beyond their strength, which accordingly issue in their disgrace; as, on the other hand, they are frequently restrained, by unreasonable and ill-grounded fears, from enterprises, in which they would in all probability have come off with honour. This reflection he applies to Aristagoras, by saying it was very easy to foresee what success he was like to meet with, who both by father and mother was descended from a long train of great and valiant men. But here again, with a very artful turn of flattery to his father Arceilas, whom he had before represented as strong and valiant, and famous for his victories in the games, he observes that every generation, even of a great and glorious family, is not equally illustrious any more than the fields and trees are every year equally fruitful; that the gods had not given mortals any certain tokens by which they might foreknow when the rich years of virtue should succeed; whence it comes to pass, that men, out of self-conceit and presumption, are perpetually laying schemes, and forming enterprises, without previously consulting prudence or wisdom, whose streams, says he, lie remote and out of the common road. From all which he infers, that it is better to moderate our desires, and set bounds to our avarice and ambition; with which moral precept he concludes the ode.

Daughter of Rhea! thou, whose holy fire
Before the awful seat of justice flames!
Sister of heav'n's almighty fire!
Sister of Juno, who coequal claims
With Jove to share the empire of the gods!
O virgin Vesta! to thy dread abodes,
To! Aristagoras directs his pace!
Receive and near thy sacred sceptre place
Him, and his colleagues, who, with honest zeal,
O'er Tenedos preside, and guard the public weal.

And lo! with frequent off-rings, they adore
Thee*, first invok'd in every solemn pray'r!
To thee unmix'd libations pour,
And fill with od'rous fumes the fragrant air.

Around in festive songs the hymning choir
Mix the melodious voice and sounding lyre,
While still, prolong'd with hospitable love,
Are solemniz'd the rites of genial Jove:
Then guard him, Vesta, through his long career,
And let him close in joy his ministerial year.

But hail, Arcefilas! all hail
To thee, bless'd father of a son so great!
Thou whom on fortune's highest scale
The favourable hand of heav'n hath set,
Thy manly form with beauty hath refin'd,
And match'd that beauty with a valiant mind.
Yet let not man too much presume,
Tho' grac'd with beauty's fairest bloom;
Tho' for superior strength renowned;
Tho' with triumphal chaplets crown'd:
Let him remember, that, in flesh array'd,
Soon shall he see that mortal vestment fade;
Till lost, imprison'd in the mould'ring urn,
To earth, the end of all things, he return.

Yet should the worthy from the public tongue
Receive their recompense of virtuous praise;
By ev'ry zealous patriot song,
And deck'd with ev'ry flow'r of heav'nly lays.
Such retribution in return for fame,
Such, Aristagoras, thy virtues claim,
Claim from thy country; on whose glorious brows
The wrestler's chaplet still unfaded blows;
Mix'd with the great Pancratiallic crown,
Which from the neighb'ring youth thy early valour won.

And (but his timid parents' cautious love,
Disturbing ever his too forward hands,
Forbade their tender son to prove
The toils of Pythia or Olympia's sands),
Now by the Gods I swear, his valorous might
Had escap'd victorious in each bloody fight;
And from Castalia†, or where dark with shade
The mount of Saturn† rears its olive head,
Great and illustrious home had he return'd;
While, by his fame eclips'd, his vanquish'd foes had
[mourn'd].

Then his triumphal tresses bound
With the dark verdure of th' Olympic grove,
With joyous banquets had he crown'd
The great quinquennial festival of Jove;
And cheer'd the solemn pomp with choral lays,
Sweet tribute, which the muse to virtue pays.
But, such is man's prepossess'd fate!
Now, with o'er-weening pride elate,
Too far he aims his shaft to throw,
And straining bursts his feeble bow:
Now pusillanimous depress'd with fear,
He checks his virtue in the mid career;
And of his strength distrustful, coward flies
The contest, tho' empower'd to gain the prize.

But who could err in prophesying good
Of him, whose undegenerating breast
Swell with a tide of Spartan blood,
From fire to fire in long succession trac'd
Up to Pisander; who in days of yore
From old Amyclæ to the Lesbian shore
And Tenedos, collegu'd in high command
With great Orestes, led th' Æolian band?
Nor was his mother's race less strong and brave,
Sprung from a stock that grew on fair * Ifmænus' wave.

Tho' for long intervals obscure'd, again
Oft-times the seeds of lineal worth appear.
For neither can the furrow'd plain
Full harvests yield with each returning year;
Nor in each period will the pregnant bloom
Inveft the smiling tree with rich perfume.
So, barren often, and inglorious, pass
The generations of a noble race;
While nature's vigour, working at the root,
In after-ages swells, and blossoms into fruit.

Nor hath Jove giv'n us to foreknow
When the rich years of virtue shall succeed:
Yet bold and daring on we go,
Contriving schemes of many a mighty deed;
While hope, fond inmate of the human mind,
And self-opinion, active, rash, and blind,
Hold up a false illusive ray,
That leads our dazzled feet astray
Far from the springs, where, calm and slow,
The secret streams of wisdom flow.
Hence should we learn our ardour to restrain,
And limit to due bounds the thirst of gain.
To rage and madness oft that passion turns,
Which with forbidden flames despairing burns.

From the above specimen, and from what we have already said on this subject, the reader will perceive, that odes of this sort are distinguished by the happy transitions and digressions which they admit, and the surprising yet natural returns to the subject. This requires great judgment and genius; and the poet who would excel in this kind of writing, should draw the plan of his poem, in manner of the argument we have above inferred, and mark out the places where those elegant and beautiful fallies and wanderings may be made, and where the returns will be easy and proper.

Pindar, it is universally allowed, had a poetical and fertile imagination, a warm and enthusiastic genius, a bold and figurative expression, and a concise and sententious style: but it is generally supposed that many of those pieces which procured him such extravagant praises and extraordinary testimonies of esteem from the ancients are lost; and if they were not, it would be perhaps impossible to convey them into our language; for beauties of this kind, like plants of an odiferous and delicate nature, are not to be transplanted into another clime without losing much of their fragrance or essential quality.

† A river, upon whose banks the Pythian games were exhibited.
† A small hill planted with olives, that overlooked the stadium at Olympia.

With regard to those compositions which are usually called Pindaric odes, (but which ought rather to be distinguished by the name of irregular odes), we have many in our language that deserve particular commendation: the criticism which Mr Congreve has given us on that subject, has too much asperity and too great latitude; for if other writers have, by mistaking Pindar's measures, given their odes an improper title, it is a crime, one would think, not so dangerous to the commonwealth of letters as to deserve such severe reproof. Beside which, we may suppose that some of these writers did not deviate from Pindar's method through ignorance, but by choice; and that, as their odes were not to be performed with both singing and dancing, in the manner of Pindar's, it seemed unnecessary to confine the first and second stanzas to the same exact number as was done in his strophes and antistrophes. The poet therefore had a right to indulge himself with more liberty: and we cannot help thinking, that the ode which Mr Dryden has given us, entitled, Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music, is altogether as valuable in loose and wild numbers, as it could have been if the stanzas were more regular, and written in the manner of Pindar. In this ode there is a wonderful sublimity of thought, a loftiness and sweetness of expression, and a most pleasing variety of numbers.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son,
Aloft, in awful state,
The god-like hero fate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
(So should desert in arms be crown'd):
The lovely Thais by his side
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserve the fair.

Chor. Happy, Happy, &c.

Timotheus, plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love!)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pres'd;
And while he fought her snowy breast:
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the
world,
The lifting crowd admire the lofty found.
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
VOL. XVII. Part I.

Affumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

Chor. With ravish'd ears, &c.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung;
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Flush'd with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hantboys breath; he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain:
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure:
Sweet the pleasure after pain.

Chor. Bacchus' blessings, &c.

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain,
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew
the slain.
The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse:
He fung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sat,
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

Chor. Revolving, &c.

The mighty master smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred found to move;
For pity melts the mind to love,
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures:
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he fung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying.
Lovely Thais fits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair,
Who caus'd his care,

B

And

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
At length with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Chor. The prince, &c.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep afunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head,
As awake from the dead,
And amaz'd he stares around.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the furies arise:
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain,
And unbury'd remain,
Inglorious on the plain:
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, she fir'd another Troy.
Chor. And the king seiz'd, &c.

Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellow's learnt to blow,
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul of rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He rais'd a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

Grand chor. At last, &c.

There is another poem by Dryden, on the death of Mrs Anne Killegrew, a young lady eminent for her skill in poetry and painting, which a great critic* has pronounced to be "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language has ever produced." He owns, that as a whole it may perhaps be inferior to Alexander's Feast; but he affirms that the first stanza of it is superior to any single part of the other. This famous stanza, he says, flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: Ferest immenſusque ruit. How far this criticism is just, the public must determine.

I.

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the bless'd;

Whose palms, new-pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest;
Whether, adopted to some neighb'ring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,

Or in procession fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heav'n's majestic pace;
Or call'd to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of poetry were giv'n
To make thyself a welcome inmate there,
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heav'n.

II.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find
A soul so charming from a flock so good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood,
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul
Was form'd at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll,
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no drops to purge from thy rich ore,
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,
New joy was sprung in heav'n, as well as here on earth:
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And e'en the most malicious were in trine.

Thy brother angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth.
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clust'ring swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heav'n had not leisure to renew:
For all thy bless'd fraternity of love
Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy day above.

IV.

O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heav'nly gift of poetry?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched me! why were we hurry'd down
This lubricque and adult'rate age,

* Dr John-
son.

Of Lyric Poetry. (Nay added fat pollutions of our own)
T'increase the streaming ordures of the stage!
What can we say t'excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vessel, Heav'n, atone for all:
Her Arethusan stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none;
For nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasure of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born.
Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life she read,
And to be read herself, she need not fear;
Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,
Tho' Epictetus with his lamp were there.
E'en love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd)
Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast,
Light as the vapours of a morning dream,
So cold herself, while the such warmth express'd,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been content
To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine?
To the next realm she stretch'd her sway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous province and alluring prey.
A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd.
(As conquerors will never want pretence,
When arm'd, to justify th' offence)
And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd.
The country open lay without defence:
For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament,
And all the large domains which the dumb sister sway'd.
All bow'd beneath her government,
Receiv'd in triumph wherefo'er she went.
Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd,
And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind.
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains and barren rocks,
Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too, and ampler floods,
Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods:
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,
And perspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear,
And shaggy satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins too of some majestic piece,
Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defac'd, the wonder of the eye;
What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peop'd ark the whole creation bore.

The scene then chang'd, with bold erect look
Our martial king the fight with reverence struck:
For not content t'express his outward part
Her hand call'd out the image of his heart:
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts were figur'd there,
As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phoenix queen was pourtray'd too so bright,
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observ'd, as well as heav'nly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,
As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands;
Before a train of heroines was seen,
In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen.
Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire the further thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,
And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had design'd, Heav'n only knows:
To such immo'derate growth her conquest rose,
That fate alone its progress could oppose.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much lamented virgin lies.
Nor wit nor piety could fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel Destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But like a harden'd felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow
And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah generous youth! that with forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far,
Among the Pleiads a new kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat,
The judging God shall close the book of fate;
And there the last affises keep
For those who wake and those who sleep:
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;

The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are cover'd with the lightest ground;
And straight with in-born vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet faint, before the quire shalt go
As harbinger of heav'n, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

That this is a fine ode, and not unworthy of the genius of Dryden, must be acknowledged; but that it is the noblest which the English language has produced, or that any part of it runs with the torrent of enthusiasm which characterizes Alexander's Feast, are positions which we feel not ourselves inclined to admit. Had the critic by whom it is so highly praised, inspected it with the eye which scanned the odes of Gray, we cannot help thinking that he would have perceived some parts of it to be tediously minute in description, and others not very perspicuous at the first perusal. It may perhaps, upon the whole, rank as high as the following ode by Collins on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland; but to a higher place it has surely no claim.

HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long
Have seen thee ling'ring with a fond delay,

Mid those soft friends, whose heart some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song,
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth (G)

Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side;
Together let us with him lasting truth,
And joy untainted with his destin'd bride.

Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name;
But think, far off, how, on the southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!

*whole. Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where * ev'ry vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand:
To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;
Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
'Tis fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;

Where still, 'tis said, the Fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.
There, each trim las, that skims the milky store,
To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.

There, ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows,
How, wing'd with Fate, their elf-shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,
Or, stretch'd on earib, the heart-smit heifers lie.
Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain:
Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect:
Let thy sweet Muso the rural faith sustain;
These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,
And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding
III. [strain.

Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
Taught by the father to his lift'ning son,
Strange lays, whose pow'r had charm'd a Spenser's ear.
At ev'ry pause, before thy mind possess,

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,
With uncouth lyres in many-colour'd vest,
Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd:
Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat
The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,
When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom beat,
And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave;
Or whether fitting in the shepherd's shiel (H),
Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms,
When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,
The sturdy clans pour'd forth their bravery* swarms, * beefy.
And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.

'Tis thine to sing how framing hideous spells,
In Sky's lone isle the gifted wizard-feer †,
Lodge'd in the wintry cave with Fate's fell spear (I),
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells:
How they whose fight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own visions oft astonish'd droop,
When, o'er the wat'ry strath, or quaggy moes,
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied ‡ troop.
Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,
Their destin'd glance some fated youth desery,
Who now, perhaps, in lullu vigour seen,
And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.
For them the viewless forms of air obey;
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair.
They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

To monarchs dear (K), some hundred miles astray,
Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow!
The feer in Sky shriek'd as the blood did flow
When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!

As Boreas threw his young Aurora (1.) forth,
In the first year of the first George's reign,
And battles rag'd in welkin of the North,
They mourn'd in air, fell, fell rebellion, slain!
And as of late they joy'd in Preston's fight,
Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd!
They rav'd divining through their second-fight (M),
Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!
Illustrious William (N)! Britain's guardian name!
One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke;
He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame,
But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,
To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic muse
Can to the topmost heav'n of grandeur soar!
Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!
Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er loose;
Let not dank Will (O) mislead you to the heath;
Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,
He glows, to draw you downward to your death,
In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake!
What though far off, from some dark dell espied,
His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wand'ers, turn your steps aside,
Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;
For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unruffling reed,
At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,
And listens oft to hear the passing steed,
And frequent round him rolls his fullen eyes,
If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed!
Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen,
Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then!
To that dark spot *where hangs the sedgy weed.

On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood,
Shall never look with pity's kind concern,
But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood
O'er his drown'd banks, forbidding all return!
Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape,
To some dim hill that seems uprising near,
To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape,
In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.
Meantime the wat'ry surge shall round him rise,
Pour'd sudden forth from ev'ry swelling source!
What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?
His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthful force,
And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corpse!

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,
Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain, at to-fall of the day,
His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate!
Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night,
Her travell'd limbs in broken flumbers sleep!
With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite
Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:
Then he, perhaps, with moist and wat'ry hand,
Shall fondly seem to press her shudd'ring cheek,
And with his blue-swollen face before her stand,
And, shiv'ring cold, these piteous accents speak:
"Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue,
At dawn or dusk, industrious as before;
Nor e'er of me one *helpless thought renew,
While I lie walt'ring on the ozier'd shore,
Drown'd by the Kelpie's† wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee† the water-
[more!]" fer'd.
Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill *
Thy muse may, like those feath'ry tribes which spring
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,

present to publish his name," we have inserted into our work the copy which pretends to be perfect, noting at the bottom or margin of the page the different readings of Dr Carlyle's edition. In the Doctor's manuscript, which appeared to have been nothing more than the prima cura, or first sketch of the poem, the fifth stanza and half of the sixth were wanting; and to give a continued context, he prevailed with Mr M'Kenzie, the ingenious author of the Man of Feeling, to fill up the chasm. This he did by the following beautiful lines, which we cannot help thinking much more happy than those which occupy their place in the copy said to be perfect:

"Or on some bellying rock that shades the deep,
They view the lurid signs that cross the sky,
Where in the west the brooding tempels lie;
And hear their first, faint, ruffling pennons sweep.
Or in the arched cave, where deep and dark
The broad unbroken billows heave and swell,
In horrid musings wrapt, they fit to mark
The lab'ring moon; or lift the nightly yell
Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form
The fear's entranced eye can well survey,
Through the dim air who guides the driving storm,
And points the wretched bark its destin'd prey.
Or him who hovers on his flagging wing,

O'er the dire whirlpool, that in ocean's waste,
Draws infant down whate'er devoted thing
The falling breeze within its reach hath plac'd—
The distant seaman hears, and flies with trembling haste.
Or if on land the fiend exerts his sway,
Silent he broods o'er quicksand, bog, or fen,
Far from the shelt'ring roof and haunts of men,
When witched darkness shuts the eye of day,
And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the night;
Or if the drifted snow perplex the way,
With treach'rous gleam he lures the fated wight
And leads him found'ring on and quite astray."

(1.) By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which is commonly said to have happened about the year 1715.

(M) Second-fight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

(N) The late duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden.

(O) A fery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wife, Jack with the Lanthorn, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places.

To that hoar pile (r) which still its ruin shows:
In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found,
Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
And culls them, wond'ring, from the hollow'd ground!
Or thither (q), where beneath the show'ry well,
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid:
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,
No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:
Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour,
The rifled mounds their yawning cells unfold,
And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign pow'r
In pageant robes; and, wreath'd with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,
On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wafting tides,
Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides.
Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace!
Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,
Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
And all their prospect but the wintry main.
With sparing temp'rance at the needful time,
They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prefl,
Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest*.
Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live,
Suffic'd, and happy with that frugal fare
Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage
Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possess;
For not alone they touch the village breast,
But fill'd in elder time th' historic page.
There, Shakespeare's self, with every garland crown'd,
Flew to those fiery climes his fancy steen (r),
In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,
And with their terrors drest'd the magic scene.
From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design,
Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!
The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line,
Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd.
Proceed! nor quit the tales, which, simply told,
Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce;
Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold,
The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy pow'rful verse.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to fancy's view,
Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's art!

How have I trembl'd, when, at Tancr'd's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd,
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword!
How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind,
Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each found, imagination glows!
Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! (s)

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!
Melting it flows, pure, murmuring*, strong, and clear,
And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear.

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!
Ye splendid† fritts and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Arman† fill'd, or pall'ral Tay†,
Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail!
The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread
Your lowly glens*, o'erhung with spreading broom; * valleys.
Or o'er your stretching heaths, by fancy led,
Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! (t)
Then will I drest once more the faded bow'r,
Where Jonson (u) sat in Drummond's classic† shade;† social.
Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r,
And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid†!† the wi-
Meantime, ye pow'rs that on the plains which bore dowed
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains (x), attend! maid!
Where'er HOME dwells§, on hill, or lowly moor, he dwells
To him I loose||, your kind protection lend, lose.
And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent
friend!

Dr Johnson, in his life of Collins, informs us, that Dr Warton and his brother, who had seen this ode in the author's possession, thought it superior to his other works. The taste of the Warton's will hardly be questioned: but we are not sure that the following Ode to the Passions has much less merit, though it be merit of a different kind, than the Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands:

WHEN Music, heav'nly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound:

* See Bird-
catchings
p. 237. and
Pelicans,
No. 3.

(r) One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies, where it is reported, that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

(q) Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where many of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings, are said to be interred.

(r) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition.

(s) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition.

(t) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition.

(u) Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot in 1619 to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within seven miles of Edinburgh.

(x) Barrow, it seems, was at the university of Edinburgh, which is in the county of Lothian.

And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret sting;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair—
Low fallen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!—
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smile'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung;—but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were never prophetic sounds so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of fight seem'd bursting from
his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul,
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its frightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder hung,
Her bushkins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
The cak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport 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 address'd,
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess, why to us denied?
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power:
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording sister's page—
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
Ev'n all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound—
O! bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate.

We shall conclude this section, and these examples, with Gray's Progress of Poetry, which, in spite of the severity of Johnson's criticism, certainly ranks high among the odes which pretend to sublimity. The first stanza, when examined by the frigid rules of grammatical criticism, is certainly not faultless: but its faults will be overlooked by every reader who has any portion of the author's fervour:

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings:
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign :
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour :
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

Oh ! Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting smell ! the fallen cares,
And frantic passions, hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's hills the lord of war
Has curb'd the fury of his ear,
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing :
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thce the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay :
O'er Idalia's velvet green
The rosy-crowned loves are seen.
On Cytherea's day,
With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures ;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet ;
To brisk notes, in cadence beating,
Glance their many twinkling feet.
Slow melting 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, and purple light of love.

Man's feeble race what ills await ;
Labour, and penury, the racks of pain,
Disease, and sorrow's weeping train,
And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate !
The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly muse ?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky ;
Till down the eastern cliffs afar,
Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom,
To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Hills, that crown the Ægean deep,

Fields, that cool Ilissus-laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In ling'ring lab'rinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish !
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath'd around ;
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound :
Till the sad nine, in Greece's evil hour,
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power,
And coward vice that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They fought, oh Albion ! next thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun, and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was nature's * darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face : the dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smile'd.
This pencil take (the said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year :
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy !
This can unlock the gates of joy ;
Of horror fears, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

Nor second he †, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph wings of ecstasy,
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time :
The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw : but, blasted with excels of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two couriers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-reounding
pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore !
Bright-ey'd fancy, hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah ! 'tis heard no more—
Oh ! Lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now ? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air :
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun :
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

THE Elegy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet sweet
and engaging, kind of poem. It was first invented to bewail

bewail the death of a friend; and afterwards used to express the complaints of lovers, or any other melancholy subject. In process of time, not only matters of grief, but joy, wishes, prayers, expostulations, reproaches, admonitions, and almost every other subject, were admitted into elegy; however, funeral lamentations and affairs of love seem most agreeable to its character, which is gentleness and tenderness.

The plaintive elegy, in mournful state,
Dishevell'd weeps the stern decrees of fate;
Now paints the lover's torments and delights;
Now the nymph flatters, threatens, or invites.
But he, who would these passions well express,
Must more of love than poetry possess.
I hate those lifeless writers whose fore'd fire
In a cold style describes a hot desire;
Who sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood,
Their sluggish muse spur to an am'rous mood.
Their ecstasies insipidly they feign;
And always pine, and fondly hug their chain;
Adore their prison, and their suff'ring bliss;
Make sense and reason quarrel as they please.
'Twas not of old in this affected tone,
That smooth Tibullus made his am'rous moan;
Or tender Ovid, in melodious strains,
Of love's dear art the pleasing rules explains.
You, who in elegy would justly write,
Consult your heart; let that alone endite.

[From the French of Despreux.] SOAMES.

The plan of an elegy, as indeed of all other poems, ought to be made before a line is written; or else the author will ramble in the dark, and his verses have no dependence on each other. No epigrammatic points or conceits, none of those fine things which most people are so fond of in every sort of poem, can be allowed in this, but must give place to nobler beauties, those of nature and the passion. Elegy rejects whatever is facetious, satirical, or majestic, and is content to be plain, decent, and unaffected; yet in this humble state is the sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorned with frequent commiserations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or persons, short and proper digressions, allusions, comparisons, prosopopoeias or feigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be free from any harshness; neat, easy, perspicuous, expressive of the manners, tender, and pathetic; and the numbers should be smooth and flowing, and captivate the ear with their uniform sweetness and delicacy.

Of elegies on the subject of death, that by Mr Gray, written in a country churchyard, is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteemed a masterpiece. But being so generally known, it would be superfluous to insert it here.

On the subject of love, we shall give an example from the elegies of Mr Hammond.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never found:
While, calmly poor, I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But cheaply blest'd I'll scorn each vain desire.

VOL. XVII. Part I.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand;
Nor blust to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the funny land.
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strutting kid or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam;
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or lulld to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy sink at last to rest.
Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And, with my DELIA walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away;
What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on DELIA as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for DELIA and myself alone.
Ah foolish man! who, thus of her possess'd,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And, if his outward trappings spoke him best,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind.
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own;
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
STANHOPE, in wisdom as in wit divine,
May rise and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With ready rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws.
Let STANHOPE speak his lifting country's wrong,
My humble voice shall please one partial maid;
For her alone I pen my tender song,
Securely sitting in his friendly shade.
STANHOPE shall come, and grace his rural friend;
DELIA shall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's patron cull the best.
Her's be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock,
For her a goatherd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock.
Ah! what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble-fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!
DELIA alone can please and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows thro' ev'ry night,
Beauty and worth in her alike contend
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand—
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breath the thought withstand.
Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill:
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair;
Tho' I am dead, my soul shall love thee still.
Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart!
Oh leave me, DELIA! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corpse in melancholy state,
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous love relate.

THIS poem takes its name from the Latin word pastor, a "shepherd;" the subject of it being something in the pastoral or rural life; and the persons, interlocutors, introduced in it, either shepherds or other rustics.

These poems are frequently called eclogues, which signifies "selected or choice pieces;" though some account for this name in a different manner. They are also called bucolics, from Βυκολος, "a herdsmen."

This kind of poem, when happily executed, gives great delight; nor is it a wonder, since innocence and simplicity generally please: to which let us add, that the scenes of pastorals are usually laid in the country, where both poet and painter have abundant matter for the exercise of genius, such as enchanting prospects, purling streams, shady groves, enamelled meads, flowery lawns, rural amusements, the bleating of flocks, and the music of birds; which is of all melody the most sweet and pleasing, and calls to our mind the wisdom and taste of Alexander, who, on being importuned to hear a man that imitated the notes of the nightingale, and was thought a great curiosity, replied, that he had had the happiness of hearing the nightingale herself.

The character of the pastoral consists in simplicity, brevity, and delicacy; the two first render an eclogue natural, and the last delightful. With respect to nature, indeed, we are to consider, that as a pastoral is an image of the ancient times of innocence and undesigning plainness, we are not to describe shepherds as they really are at this day, but as they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of men, and even princes, followed the employment. For this reason, an air of piety should run through the whole poem; which is visible in the writings of antiquity.

To make it natural with respect to the present age, some knowledge in rural affairs should be discovered, and that in such a manner as if it was done by chance rather than by design; left by too much pains to seem natural, that simplicity be destroyed from whence arises the delight; for what is so engaging in this kind of poetry proceeds not so much from the idea of a country life itself, as in exposing only the best part of a shepherd's life, and concealing the misfortunes and miseries which sometimes attend it. Besides, the subject must contain some particular beauty in itself, and each eclogue present a scene or prospect to our view enriched with

variety: which variety is in a great measure obtained by frequent comparisons drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by interrogations to things inanimate; by short and beautiful digressions; and by elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers more sweet and pleasing. To this let us add, that the connections must be negligent, the narrations and descriptions short, and the periods concise.

Riddles, parables, proverbs, antique phrases, and superfluous fables, are fit materials to be intermixed with this kind of poem. They are here, when properly applied, very ornamental; and the more so, as they give our modern compositions the air of the ancient manner of writing.

The style of the pastoral ought to be humble, yet ¹³⁸ pure; neat, but not florid; easy, and yet lively; and the numbers should be smooth and flowing.

This poem in general should be short, and ought never much to exceed 100 lines; for we are to consider that the ancients made these sort of compositions their amusement, and not their business: but however short they are, every eclogue must contain a plot or fable, which must be simple and one; but yet so managed as to admit of short digressions. Virgil has always observed this. We shall give the plot or argument of his first pastoral as an example. Meliboeus, an unfortunate shepherd, is introduced with Tityrus, one in more fortunate circumstances; the former addresses the complaint of his sufferings and banishment to the latter, who enjoys his flocks and folds in the midst of the public calamity, and therefore expresses his gratitude to the benefactor from whom this favour flowed: but Meliboeus accuses fortune, civil wars, and bids adieu to his native country. This is therefore a dialogue.

But we are to observe, that the poet is not always obliged to make his eclogue allegorical, and to have real persons represented by the fictitious characters introduced; but is in this respect entirely at his own liberty.

Nor does the nature of the poem require it to be always carried on by way of dialogue; for a shepherd may with propriety sing the praises of his love, complain of her inconsistency, lament her absence, her death, &c. and address himself to groves, hills, rivers, and such like rural objects, even when alone.

We shall now give an example from each of those authors who have eminently distinguished themselves by this manner of writing, and introduce them in the order of time in which they were written.

Theocritus, who was the father or inventor of this ¹³⁹ kind of poetry, has been deservedly esteemed by the of the pastoral best critics; and by some, whose judgment we cannot dispute, preferred to all other pastoral writers, with perhaps the single exception of the tender and delicate Gesner. We shall insert his third idyllium, not because it is the best, but because it is within our compass.

To Amaryllis, lovely nymph, I speed,
Meanwhile my goats upon the mountains feed.
O Tityrus, tend them with assiduous care,
Lead them to crystal springs and pastures fair,
And of the ridgling's butting horns beware.
Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot
Our secret pleasures in the conscious grot,

Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd?
Blest was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind.
I whom you call'd your Dear, your Love, so late,
Say, am I now the object of your hate?
Say, is my form displeasing to your sight?
This cruel love will surely kill me quite.
Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view,
Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late they grew.
Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store;
To-morrow will produce as many more.
Meanwhile these heart-confusing pains remove,
And give me gentle pity for my love.
Oh! was I made by some transforming power
A bee to buzz in your sequestr'd bow'r!
To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound,
And the light leaves that compass you around.
I know thee, Love, and to my sorrow find,
A god thou art, but of the savage kind;
A lioness sure suckled the fell child,
And with his brothers nurs'd him in the wild;
On me his scorching flames incessant prey,
Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away.
Ah, nymph, whose eyes destructive glances dart,
Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart:
With kisses kind this rage of love appease;
For me, fond swain! ev'n empty kisses please.
Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear
The flow'ry crown I wore for you to wear,
Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath,
And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe.
Ah me! what pangs I feel; and yet the fair
Nor sees my sorrows nor will hear my pray'r.
I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die,
And from yon rock that points its summit high,
Where patient Alpis snares the finny fry,
I'll leap, and, though perchance I rise again,
You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main.
By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found
Your chang'd affection, for it gave no sound,
Though in my hand struck hollow as it lay,
But quickly wither'd like your love away.
An old witch brought sad tidings to my ears,
She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers;
For leasing barley in my fields of late,
She told me, I should love, and you should hate!
For you my care a milk-white goat supply'd.
Two wanton kids run frisking at her side;
Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacis,
Has begg'd and paid before-hand with a kiss;
And since you thus my ardent passion slight,
Her's they shall be before to-morrow night.
My right eye itches; may it lucky prove,
Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love;
Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear,
Perhaps the fair my tender notes shall hear;
Perhaps may pity my melodious moan;
She is not metamorphos'd into stone.
Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife,
To win a mistress, or to lose his life,
Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way:
The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay;
She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took fire,
She plung'd into the gulf of deep desire.

To Pyle from Othrys fage Melampus came,
He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame;

Fair Pero blest his brother Bias' arms,
And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms.

Adonis fed his cattle on the plain,
And sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain;
She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace,
Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace.
Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest,
I envy nothing but his lasting rest.

Jasion flumb'ring on the Cretan plain
Ceres once saw, and blest the happy swain
With pleasures too divine for ears profane.

My head grows giddy, love affects me sore;
Yet you regard not; so I'll sing no more—
Here will I put a period to my care—
Adieu, false nymph, adieu ungrateful fair;
Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last,
My corse will give the wolves a rich repast,
As sweet to them as honey to your taste.

Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in Virgil's
some places copied, and always imitated with success.
As a specimen of his manner, we shall introduce his first
pastoral, which is generally allowed to be the most per-
fect.

Mel. Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse,
You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse.
Round the wide world in banishment we roam,
Forc'd from our pleasing fields and native home;
While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy love,
And Amyrillis fills the shady groves.

Tit. These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd;
For never can I deem him less than god.
The tender firillig of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often bleed.
He gave me kine to graze the flow'ry plain,
And so my pipe renew'd the rural strain.

Mel. I envy not your fortune; but admire,
That while the raging sword and wasteful fire
Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around,
No hostile arms approach your happy ground.
Far different is my fate; my feeble goats
With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes:
And this you see I scarcely drag along,
Who yearning on the rocks has left her young,
The hope and promise of my falling fold.
My loss by dire portents the gods foretold;
For, had I not been blind, I might have seen
Yon riven oak, the fairest on the green,
And the hoarse raven on the blasted bough
By croaking from the left presag'd the coming blow.
But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly pow'r
Preserv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour?

Tit. Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome
Like Mantua, where on market-days we come,
And thither drive our tender lambs from home.
So kids and whelps the fires and dams express;
And so the great I measur'd by the less:
But country-towns, compar'd with her, appear
Like shrubs when lofty cypresses are near.

Mel. What great occasion call'd you hence to Rome?
Tit. Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to
come:

Pastoral. Nor did my search of liberty begin
Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin;
Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look,
Till Galatea's meaneer bonds I broke.
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain,
I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain:
Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought,
And many a cheese to county markets brought,
Yet all the little that I got I spent,
And still return'd as empty as I went.

Mel. We stood amaz'd to see your mistress mourn,
Unknowing that she pin'd for your return;
We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long,
For whom so late th' ungather'd apples hung:
But now the wonder ceases, since I see
She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee:
For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn,
And whisp'ring pines made vows for thy return.

Tit. What should I do? while here I was enchain'd,
No glimpse of godlike liberty remain'd;
Nor could I hope in any place but there
To find a god so present to my pray'r.
There fir'd the youth of heav'nly birth I view'd,
For whom our monthly victims are renew'd.
He heard my vows, and graciously decreed
My grounds to be restor'd my former flocks to feed.

Mel. O fortunate old man! whose farm remains
For you sufficient, and requites your pains,
Though rushes overspread the neighb'ring plains,
Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields,
And there the soil a stony harvest yields.
Your teeming eyes shall no strange meadows try,
Nor fear a rot from tainted company.
Behold you bord'ring fence of fallow trees
Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with bees:
The busy bees, with a soft murmur'ring strain,
Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain:
While from the neighb'ring rock with rural songs
The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs;
Stock doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain,
And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change,
And fish on shore and flags in air shall range,
The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink;
Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth,
Forget the figure of that godlike youth.

Mel. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone;
And some to far Oasis shall be fold,
Or try the Libyan heat or Scythian cold;
The rest among the Britons be confin'd,
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd.
O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn!
Nor after length of rolling years return?
Are we condemn'd by Fate's unjust decree,
No more our houses and our homes to see?
Or shall we mount again the rural throne,
And rule the country, kingdoms once our own?
Did we for these barbarians plant and sow,
On these, on these, our happy fields bestow?
Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discords flow!
Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine;
The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.

Farewell my pastures, my paternal flock!
My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock!
No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb
The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme;
No more extended in the grove below,
Shall see you browsing on the mountain's brow.
The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare
Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air!
No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew;
No more my fong shall please the rural crew:
Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu!
Tit. This night, at least, with me forget your care;
Chefnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare:
The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread,
And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head:
For see you funny hill the shade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Spenser was the first of our countrymen who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We shall insert his sixth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the

ARGUMENT. "Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight by reason of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forsaken him for Menalcas another shepherd. By Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author sometimes professed to imitate. In the person of Colin is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hill country, seems to allude to his leaving the north, where, as is mentioned in his life, he had for some time resided."

Hob. Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant sight
From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind:

Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,
So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find:

The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight,
The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind
To th' water's fall their tunes attempt right.

Col. O! happy Hobbinol, I bless thy fate,
That paradise hast found which Adam lost.

Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to be ytoft;

Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast:
But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,

And angry gods, pursue from coast to coast,
Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate.

Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be,
Forsake the soil that so doth thee bewitch:

Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see,
Nor holly bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;

And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich,
And fruitful flocks been everywhere to see:

Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch,
Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.

But friendly fairies met with many graces,
And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,

With heydeguis, and trimly trodden traces;
Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass' height,

Pastoral. Do make them music, for their more delight;
And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces,
Will pipe and dance, when Phœbe shineth bright:
Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.
Col. And I whilst youth, and course of careleſſe years,
Did let me walk withouten links of love,
In ſuch delights did joy amongſt my peers:
But ripe age ſuch pleasures doth reprove,
My fancy eke from former follies move
To ſtray ſteps: for time in paſſing wears
(As garments doen, which waxen old above)
And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.
Though couth I ſing of love, and tune my pipe
Unto my plaintive pleaſe in verſes made:
Though would I ſeek for queen-apples unripe
To give my Roſalind, and in ſommer shade
Dight gawdy girlonds was my common trade,
To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,
And loſt of her, whose love as life I wayde,
Thoſe weary wanton toys away did wipe.
Hob. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelay,
Which thou wert wont on waſteful hills to ſing,
I more delight, than lark in ſommer days:
Whole echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And taught the birds, which in the lower ſpring
Did throu'd in shady leaves from ſunny rays,
Frame to thy ſong their cheerful cheriſing,
Or hold their peace, for ſhame of thy ſweet lays.
I ſaw Calliope with muſes moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to ſound,
Their ivory lutes and tamburins forego,
And from the fountain, where they ſate around,
Ren after haſtily thy ſilver ſound.
But when they came, where thou thy ſkill didſt ſhow,
They drew aback, as half with ſhame confound,
Shepherd to ſee, them in their art outgo.
Col. Of muſes, Hobbinol, I con no ſkill.
For they been daughters of the higheſt love,
And holden ſcorn of homely ſhepherds quill:
For ſith I heard that Pan with Phœbus ſtrove
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
I never liſt preſume to Parmas' hill,
But piping low, in ſhade of lowly grove,
I play to pleaſe myſelf, albeit ill.
Nought weigh I, who my ſong doth praïſe or blame,
Ne ſtrive to win renown, or paſs the reſt:
With ſhepherds ſits not follow flying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him beſt.
I wot my rimes been rough, and rudely dreſt;
The fitter they, my careful caſe to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unreſt,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the fame.
The God of ſhepherds, Tityrus, is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:
He, whilst he lived, was the ſov'reign head
Of ſhepherds all, that been with love ytake.
Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake
The flames which love within his heart had bred,
And tell us merry tales to keep us wake,
The while our ſleep about us ſafely ſed.
Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead,
(O why ſhould death on him ſuch outrage ſhow!)
And all his paſſing ſkill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.
But if on me ſome little drops would flow

Of that the ſpring was in his learned hed,
I ſoon would learn theſe woods to wail my woe,
And teach the trees their trickling tears to ſhed.
Then would my plaints, cauſ'd of diſcourteſſe,
As meſſengers of this my painful flight,
Fly to my love, wherever that ſhe be,
And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;
As the deſerves, that wrought ſo deadly ſpight.
And thou, Menalcaſ, that by treachery
Didſt underſong my laſs to wax ſo light,
Should'ſt well be known for ſuch thy villany.
But ſince I am not, as I with I were,
Ye gentle ſhepherds, which your flocks do feed,
Whether on hills or dales, or other where,
Bear witneſſe all of this ſo wicked deed:
And tell the laſs, whose flower is waxen a weed,
And faultleſſe faith is turn'd to faithleſſe ſeere,
That ſhe the truett ſhepherd's heart made bleed,
That lives on earth, and loved her moſt dear.
Hob. O! careful Colin, I lament thy caſe,
Thy tears would make the hardeſt ſtint to flow!
Ah! faithleſſe Roſalind, and void of grace,
That art the root of all this rueful woe!
But now is time, I gueſſ, homeward to go;
Then riſe, ye bleſſed flocks, and home apace
Left night with ſtealing ſteps do you foreclo,
And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.
By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Philips.
Mr Philips has, in imitation of Spenser, preſerved in his
pastoral many antiquated words, which, though they
are diſcarded from polite conversation, may naturally be
ſuppoſed ſtill to have place among the ſhepherds and
other ruſtics in the country. We have made choice of
his ſecond eclogue, becauſe it is brought home to his
own buſineſſ, and contains a complaint againſt thoſe who
had ſpoken ill of him and his writings.
THENOT, COLINET.
Th. Is it not Colinet I loneſome ſee
Leaning with folded arms againſt the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my ſight?
'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woſul plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unſeemly, now the ſky ſo bright appears?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things ſmile around?
Or hear'ſt not lark and linnet jointly ſing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to ſalute the ſpring?
Co. Tho' blithe their notes, not ſo my wayward fate;
Nor lark would ſing, nor linnet, in my ſtate.
Each creature, Thenot, to his taſk is born;
As they to miſth and muſic, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.
Th. Small cauſe, I ween, has luſty youth to plain;
Or who may then the weight of eld ſustain,
When every ſlackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load preſſeth as our days prevail?
Yet though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend,
Spite of my ſnowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper ſtill retains;
And why ſhould man, miſhap what will, repine,
Sour every ſweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

Co. Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.

Th. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I,
T'ween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.

Co. Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Does there one smiling hour my youth attend?
Though few my days, as well my follies show,
Yet are those days all clouded o'er with wo:
No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear,
My low'ring sky and wint'ry months to cheer.
My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-scar too plain, I see:
Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and sport of every wind;
The riven trunk feels not the approach of spring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches sing:
No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng
With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

Th. Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildews spoil the rising corn.
Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill luck betides thee still.

Co. And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?

Th. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep:
From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep;
Against ill luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

Co. Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silv'ry flood.
Ah silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks; oh, when shall I once more
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore?
When, in the crystal of thy waters, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself did raise and cover o'er with sod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.

Th. And what inticement charm'd thee far away
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

Co. A lewd desire strange lands and swains to know.
Ah me! that ever I should covet wo.
With wand'ring feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

Th. Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither come
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone is ever bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

Co. Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of wo!
My sheep quite spent through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper ragged gown and bare,

The damp cold green sward for my nightly bed,
And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain;
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting show'r
Destroys the tender herb and budding flow'r.

Th. Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue?

Co. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite
Make mock of all the ditties I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail.
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas seems to like my simple strain:
And while that he delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night nor day shall my rude music cease;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

Th. Menalcas, lord of these fair fertile plains,
Prefers the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns;
For him our yearly wakes and feasts we hold,
And choose the fairest firstlings from the fold;
He, good to all who good deserves, shall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural songs.

Co. First then shall lightsome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

Th. This night thy care with me forget, and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard,
Shall be our ev'ning fare; and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite:
And now behold the sun's departing ray,
O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day:
With songs the jovial hinds return from plow;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

Mr Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different ¹⁴³ Pope.
drefs from those of Spenser and Philips; for he has dis-
carded all antiquated words, drawn his swains more mo-
dern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely har-
monious: his eclogues therefore may be called better
poems, but not better pastorals. We shall insert the ec-
logue he has inscribed to Mr Wycherly, the beginning
of which is in imitation of Virgil's first pastoral.

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays:
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing.

Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire:
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!

Pastoral. Oh, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phœbus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, un pity'd, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her the feather'd quires neglect their song;
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their head and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop forsaken by the spring;
Ye birds, that left by summer cease to sing;
Ye trees, that fade when autumn's heats remove;
Say, is not absence death to those who love?
Go, gentle gales, and bear thy sighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay:
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r and perish all but she.
What have I said? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their ev'ning song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'ring's faint with pain,
Not flow'rs to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy flight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come! ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!—now cease, my lay;
And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admir'd;
Rehearfe, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain:
Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat;
While curling smokes from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day!
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;

Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove:
Just gods! shall all things yield return but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey."—
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep?
Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.—
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
For sake mankind, and all the world—but love!
I know thee, Love! wild as the raging main,
More fell than tygers on the Libyan plain:
Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains.
No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!
Thus fung the shepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these pastorals, which are written agreeably to the Gay. 144
taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescribed, we shall
beg leave to subjoin another that may be called burlesque
pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, Mr Gay, has
ventured to deviate from the beaten road, and described
the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and coun-
try, instead of those of the golden age, to which the
modern critics confine the pastoral. His six pastorals,
which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and
lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions
of our rustics. We shall insert the first of them, intitled
The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to outdo each
other in singing the praises of their sweethearts, leaving
it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons
named are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Lob. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throstle shrill the bramble-bush forsake;
No chirping lark the welkin scene* invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant† the dawn appear;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear†?
Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I wren‡ my plight is guest;
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest.
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouzalinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising tear betokeneth well thy mind;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzalinda smites, Buxoma me.

Lob. Ah Blouzalind! I love thee more by half,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.
Woe worth the tongue, may blisters fore it gall,
That names Buxoma Blouzalind withal.

Cud. Hold, wittless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Left blisters fore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain,
The wifest lout of all the neighb'ring plain!

From

Pastoral. From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
* Formerly. He taught us erst * the heifer's tail to view,
When fluck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue :
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.
Lob. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of fleekest fallow-deer :
This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.
Cud. Begin thy carols, then, thou vaunting flouch ;
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
Lob. My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows ;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of gardens sweet ;
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet :
But Blouzalind's than gilly-flower more fair,
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.
Cud. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid
That e'er at wake delightful gambol play'd ;
Clean as young lambskins, or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The wittless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain ;
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play delectest † feats around :
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Lob. Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near ;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no sultry summer's heat I know ;
In winter, when the's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire !
Cud. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday ;
And holidays, if haply the were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
‡ Very soon. Esifoons ‡, O sweetheart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.
Lob. As Blouzalinda, in a gamefome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood,
I silly ran and snatch'd a hasty kiss ;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.
Cud. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger strook'd her milky care,
I quaintly ‡ stole a kiss ; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbim, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
Lob. Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer ;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalind :

While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.
Cud. In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife,
The capon fat delights his dainty wife ;
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare ;
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
Lob. As once I play'd at blind man's buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt :
I mis'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzalind ;
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.
Cud. As at hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown ;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.
Lob. On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hung ;
Now high, now low, my Blouzalinda swung ;
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg and scarlet hose.
Cud. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tott'ring maid !
High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell ;
I spy'd—but faithful sweethearts never tell.
Lob. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain,
This wily riddle puzzles every swain :
What flow'r is that which bears the virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the same * ?
Cud. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight :
What flow'r is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis sown on graves † ?
Lob. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your
strains ;
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry ;
They're weary of your songs—and so am I.

We have given the rules usually laid down for pastoral writing, and exhibited some examples written on this plan ; but we have to observe that this poem may take very different forms. It may appear either as a comedy or as a ballad. As a pastoral comedy, there is perhaps nothing which possesses equal merit with Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, and we know not where to find in any language a rival to the Pastoral Ballad of Shenstone. That the excellence of this poem is great can hardly be questioned, since it compelled a critic, who was never lavish of his praise, and who on all occasions was ready to vilify the pastoral, to express himself in terms of high encomium. " In the first part (says he) are two passages, to which if any mind denies its sympathy, it has no acquaintance with love or nature :

I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before ;
But now they are past, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt in my heart !
Yet I thought—but it might not be so,
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.

She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.

"In the second (continues the same critic) this passage has its prettiness, though it be not equal to the former."

I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,
She would say 'twas a barbarous deed:
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SECT. V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

¹⁴⁶
Origin and use of didactic poetry. THE method of writing precepts in verse, and embellishing them with the graces of poetry, had its rise, we may suppose, from a due consideration of the frailties and perverseness of human nature; and was intended to engage the affections, in order to improve the mind and amend the heart.

Didactic or preceptive poetry, has been usually employed either to illustrate and explain our moral duties, our philosophical inquiries, our business and pleasures; or in teaching the art of criticism or poetry itself. It may be adapted, however, to any other subject; and may in all cases, where instruction is designed, be employed to good purpose. Some subjects, indeed, are more proper than others, as they admit of more poetical ornaments, and give a greater latitude to genius: but whatever the subject is, those precepts are to be laid down that are the most useful; and they should follow each other in a natural easy method, and be delivered in the most agreeable engaging manner. What the prose writer tells you ought to be done, the poet often conveys under the form of a narration, or shows the necessity of in a description; and by representing the action as done, or doing, conceals the precept that should enforce it. The poet likewise, instead of telling the whole truth, or laying down all the rules that are requisite, selects such parts only as are the most pleasing, and communicates the rest indirectly, without giving us an open view of them; yet takes care that nothing shall escape the reader's notice with which he ought to be acquainted. He discloses just enough to lead the imagination into the parts that are concealed; and the mind, ever gratified with its own discoveries, is complimented with exploring and finding them out; which, though done with ease, seems so considerable, as not to be obtained but in consequence of its own adroitness and sagacity.

¹⁴⁷
Rules to be observed in its composition. But this is not sufficient to render didactic poetry always pleasing: for where precepts are laid down one after another, and the poem is of considerable length, the mind will require some recreation and refreshment by the way; which is to be procured by seasonable moral reflections, pertinent remarks, familiar similes, and descriptions naturally introduced, by allusions to ancient histories or fables, and by short and pleasant digressions and excursions into more noble subjects, so aptly brought in, that they may seem to have a remote relation, and be of a

VOL. XVII. Part I.

piece with the poem. By thus varying the form of instruction, the poet gives life to his precepts, and awakens and secures our attention, without permitting us to see by what means we are thus captivated: and his art is the more to be admired, because it is so concealed as to escape the reader's observation.

The style, too, must maintain a dignity suitable to the subject, and every part be drawn in such lively colours, that the things described may seem as if presented to the reader's view.

But all this will appear more evident from example; and though entire poems of this kind are not within the compass of our design, we shall endeavour to select such passages as will be sufficient to illustrate the rules we have here laid down.

We have already observed, that, according to the usual divisions, there are four kinds of didactic poems, viz. those that respect our moral duties, our philosophical speculations, our business and pleasures, or that give precepts for poetry and criticism.

I. On the first subject, indeed, we have scarce any thing that deserves the name of poetry, except Mr Pope's Essay on Man, his Ethic Epistles, Blackmore's Creation, and part of Young's Night Thoughts; to which therefore we refer as examples.

II. Those preceptive poems that concern philosophical speculations, though the subject is so pregnant with matter, affords such a field of fancy, and is so capable of every decoration, are but few. Lucretius is the most considerable among the ancients who has written in this manner; among the moderns we have little else but small detached pieces, except the poem called Anti-Lucretius, which has not yet received an English dress; Dr Akenide's Pleasures of the Imagination, and Dr Darwin's Botanic Garden; which are all worthy of our admiration. Some of the small pieces in this department are also well executed; and there is one entitled the Universe, written by Mr Baker, from which we shall borrow an example.

The author's scheme is in some measure coincident with Mr Pope's, so far especially as it tends to restrain the pride of man, with which design it was professedly written.

The passage we have selected is that respecting the planetary system.

Unwise! and thoughtless! impotent! and blind!
Can wealth, or grandeur, satisfy the mind?
Of all those pleasures mortals most admire,
Is there one joy sincere, that will not tire?
Can love itself endure? or beauty's charms
Afford that bliss we fancy in its arms?
Then let thy soul more glorious aims pursue:
Have thy CREATOR and his works in view.
Be these thy study: hence thy pleasures bring:
And drink large draughts of wisdom from its spring;
That spring, whence perfect joy, and calm repose,
And blest content, and peace eternal, flows.

Observe how regular the planets run,
In stated times, their courses round the Sun.
Different their bulk, their distance, their career,
And different much the compass of their year:
Yet all the same eternal laws obey,
While God's unerring finger points the way.

First Mercury, amidst full tides of light,
Rolls next the sun, through his small circle bright.

Didactic. All that dwell here must be refin'd and pure :
Bodies like ours such ardour can't endure :
Our earth would blaze beneath so fierce a ray,
And all its marble mountains melt away.

Fair Venus, next, fulfils her larger round,
With softer beams, and milder glory crown'd.
Friend to mankind, she glitters from afar,
Now the bright ev'ning, now the morning star.

More distant still, our earth comes rolling on,
And forms a wider circle round the sun :
With her the moon, companion ever dear !
Her course attending through the shining year.

See, Mars, alone, runs his appointed race,
And measures out, exact, the destin'd space :
Nor nearer does he wind, nor farther stray,
But finds the point whence first he roll'd away.

More yet remote from day's all cheering source,
Vast Jupiter performs his constant course :
Four friendly moons, with borrow'd lustre, rise,
Bellow their beams divine, and light his skies.

Farthest and last, scarce warm'd by Phœbus' ray,
Through his vast orbit Saturn wheels away.
How great the change could we be wast'd there !
How flow the seasons ! and how long the year !
One moon, on us, reflects its cheerful light :
There, five attendants brighten up the night.
Here, the blue firmament bedeck'd with stars ;
There, over-head, a lucid arch appears.

From hence, how large, how strong, the sun's bright ball !
But seen from thence, how languid and how small !—
When the keen north with all its fury blows,
Conceals the floods, and forms the fleecy snows,
'Tis heat intense to what can there be known :
Warmer our poles than is its burning zone.

Who there inhabits must have other pow'rs,
Juices, and veins, and sense, and life, than ours.
One moment's cold, like theirs, would pierce the bone,
Freeze the heart-blood, and turn us all to stone.

Strange and amazing must the difference be
'T'wixt this dull planet and bright Mercury :
Yet reason says, nor can we doubt at all,
Millions of beings dwell on either ball,
With constitutions fitted for the spot,
Where Providence, all wise, has fix'd their lot.

Wondrous art thou, O GOD, in all thy ways !
Their eyes to thee let all thy creatures raise ;
Adore thy grandeur, and thy goodness praise.

Ye sons of men ! with satisfaction know,
God's own right hand dispenses all below :
Nor good nor evil does by chance befall ;
He reigns supreme, and he directs it all.

At his command, affrighting human-kind,
Comets drag on their blazing lengths behind :
Nor, as we think, do they at random rove,
But, in determin'd times, through long ellipses move.
And tho' sometimes they near approach the sun ;
Sometimes beyond our system's orbit run ;
Throughout their race they act their Maker's will,
His pow'rs declare, his purposes fulfil.

III. Of those preceptive poems that treat of the business and pleasures of mankind, Virgil's Georgics claim our first and principal attention. In these he has laid down the rules of husbandry in all its branches with the utmost exactness and perspicuity, and at the

same time embellished them with all the beauties and Didactic. graces of poetry. Though his subject was husbandry, he has delivered his precepts, as Mr Addison observes, not with the simplicity of a ploughman, but with the address of a poet: the meanness of his rules are laid down with a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the clouds, and tosses about the dung, with an air of gracefulness. Of the different ways of conveying the same truth to the mind, he takes that which is pleasantest; and this chiefly distinguishes poetry from prose, and renders Virgil's rules of husbandry more delightful and valuable than any other.

These poems, which are esteemed the most perfect of the author's works, are, perhaps, the best that can be proposed for the young student's imitation in this manner of writing; for the whole of his Georgics is wrought up with wonderful art, and decorated with all the flowers of poetry.

IV. Of those poems which give precepts for the recreations and pleasures of a country life, we have several in our own language that are justly admired. As the most considerable of these diversions, however, are finely treated by Mr Gay in his Rural Sports, we particularly refer to that poem.

We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deserve particular attention; but we have anticipated our design, and rendered any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this treatise. We ought however to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients who wrote precepts for poetry in verse; at least his epistle to the Pisces is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect, it seems almost to have precluded the necessity of any other. Among the moderns we have several that are justly admired; as Boileau, Pope, &c.

Poets who write in the preceptive manner should take care to choose such subjects as are worthy of their muse, and of consequence to all mankind; for to bestow both parts and pains to teach people trifles that are unworthy of their attention, is to the last degree ridiculous.

Among poems of the useful and interesting kind, Dr Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health deserves particular recommendation, as well in consideration of the subject, as of the elegant and masterly manner in which he has treated it; for he has made those things, which are in their own nature dry and uninteresting, perfectly agreeable and pleasing, by adhering to the rules observed by Virgil and others in the conduct of these poems.

With regard to the style or dress of these poems, ¹⁴⁹ it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the style, subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to be bound in the most bold and forcible metaphors, the Didactic most glowing and picturesque epithets; it ought to be elevated and enlivened by pomp of numbers and majesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a language above the vulgar and current expressions." One may add, that in no kind of poetry (not even in the sublime ode) is beauty of expression so much to be regarded as in this. For the epic writer should be very cautious of indulging himself in too florid a manner of expression,

Didactic expression, especially in the dramatic parts of his fable, where he introduces dialogue: and the writer of tragedy cannot fall into so nauseous and unnatural an affectation, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epithets, studied phrases, and high-flown metaphors, into the mouths of his characters. But as the didactic poet speaks in his own person, it is necessary and proper for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agreeable to an admirable precept of Aristotle, which no writer should ever forget,—"That diction ought most to be laboured in the unactive, that is, the descriptive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too glaring an expression obscures the manners and the sentiments."

We have already observed that any thing in nature may be the subject of this poem. Some things, however, will appear to more advantage than others, as they give a greater latitude to genius, and admit of more poetical ornaments. Natural history and philosophy are copious subjects. Precepts in these might be decorated with all the flowers in poetry; and, as Dr Trapp observes, how can poetry be better employed, or more agreeably to its nature and dignity, than in celebrating the works of the great Creator, and describing the nature and generation of animals, vegetables, and minerals; the revolutions of the heavenly bodies; the motions of the earth; the flux and reflux of the sea; the cause of thunder, lightning, and other meteors; the attraction of the magnet; the gravitation, cohesion, and repulsion of matter; the impulsive motion of light; the slow progression of sounds; and other amazing phenomena of nature? Most of the arts and sciences are also proper subjects for this poem; and none are more so than its two sister arts, painting and music. In the former, particularly, there is room for the most entertaining precepts concerning the disposal of colours; the arrangement of lights and shades; the secret attractives of beauty; the various ideas which make up the one; the distinguishing between the attitudes proper to either sex, and every passion; the representing prospects of buildings, battles, or the country; and, lastly, concerning the nature of imitation, and the power of painting. What a boundless field of invention is here? What room for description, comparison, and poetical fable? How easy the transition, at any time, from the draught to the original, from the shadow to the substance? and from hence, what noble excursions may be made into history, into panegyric upon the greatest beauties or heroes of the past or present age?

SECT. VI. Of the Epistle.

¹⁵⁰
The character of the epistle.
THIS species of writing, if we are permitted to lay down rules from the examples of our best poets, admits of great latitude, and solicits ornament and decoration; yet the poet is still to consider, that the true character of the epistle is ease and elegance; nothing therefore should be forced or unnatural, laboured or affected, but every part of the composition should breathe an easy, polite, and unconstrained freedom.

It is suitable to every subject; for as the epistle takes place of discourse, and is intended as a sort of distant

conversation, all the affairs of life and researches into nature may be introduced. Those, however, which are fraught with compliment or condolence, that contain a description of places, or are full of pertinent remarks, and in a familiar and humorous way describe the manners, vices, and follies of mankind, are the best; because they are most suitable to the true character of epistolary writing, and (business set apart) are the usual subjects upon which our letters are employed.

All farther rules and directions are unnecessary; for this kind of writing is better learned by example and practice than by precept. We shall, therefore, in conformity to our plan, select a few epistles for the reader's imitation; which, as this method of writing has of late much prevailed, may be best taken, perhaps, from our modern poets.

The following letter from Mr Addison to Lord Halifax, contains an elegant description of the curiosities and places about Rome, together with such reflections on the ineffable blessings of liberty as must give pleasure to every Briton, especially when he sees them thus placed in direct opposition to the baneful influence of slavery and oppression, which are ever to be seen among the miserable inhabitants of those countries.

While you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting climate
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhymes.

For wherefore'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods;
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source;
To see the Mincia draw its wat'ry shore
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide!

Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I survey
Eridanus thro' flow'ry meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And, proudly swollen with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty shores admire,
That, destitute of strength, derives its course
From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;

Yet fung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boya, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobserv'd in wild meanders play'd;
Till, by your lines, and Nassau's sword renown'd,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the muse my ravish'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile,
That shun the coasts of Britain's stormy isle,
Or when transplanted and preserv'd with care,
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:
Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally retreat,
And all the seasons lavish all their pride:
Blossoms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rise,
And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my soul a thousand passions stirve,
When Rome's exalted beauties I descry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb;
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies;
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,
And wond'ring at their height thro' airy channels flow.

Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires;
And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,
And fosten'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In solemn silence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown:
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly su'd,
Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdu'd.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show th' immortal labours in my verse,
Where from the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost.
Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my muse.

How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains, and her funny shores,
With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart,
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The red'ning orange and the swelling grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountain may the sun reline,
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heav'nly repine,
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine:
'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, [smile,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains

Others with tow'ring piles may please the sight,
And in their proud aspiring domes delight;
A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvas give,
Or teach their animated rocks to live:
'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war,
And answer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r.
The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
Bless the wife conduct of her pious arms:
Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace.

Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head,
And fain her godlike sons would disunite
By foreign gold, or by domestic spite;
But strives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels guide.

Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found,
The distant climes and diff'rent tongues resound,
I bridle in my struggling muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song:
My humble verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays,
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise.
There

There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, displayed in the following letter from Lord Lyttleton to Mr Pope; and the message from the shade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and justly preceptive, may prove an useful lesson to future bards.

From Rome, 1730.

155
Lyttleton.

IMMORTAL bard! for whom each muse has wove
The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove;
Preserv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit:
For now no more, these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly,
Daughters of reason and of liberty.

Nor Baie nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincia rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's inauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd fate
Has felt the worst severity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to instruct and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see,
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd,
While with th' inspiring muse my bosom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise:
Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his master bear.

Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner satire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy noble bays.
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray:
But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;

Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task to raise
A lasting column to thy country's praise,
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has lost;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,
Such was the people whose exploits I sung;
Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,
With different bays by Mars and Phebus crown'd,
Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,
But pleas'd a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.

If these commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.

The following letter from Mr Philips to the earl of Dorset is entirely descriptive; but is one of those descriptions which will be ever read with delight.

Copenhagen, March 9. 1709.

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow,
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow,
What present shall the muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight
All pleasing objects which to verse invite.
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
The flow'ry plains, and silver-streaming floods,
By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No bird within the desert region sing:
The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast Leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day:
The starving wolves along the main sea prow,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl.
O'er many a thinning league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.
And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow,
At ev'ning a keen easter breeze arose,
And the descending rain unfully'd froze;
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view.
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes:
For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns flow,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick sprang reeds, which watery marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The flag in limpid currents with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:

Epistle. The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frightened birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbend the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bow'rs and thro' delicious meads,
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear;
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

The great use of medals is properly described in the ensuing elegant epistle from Mr Pope to Mr Addison; and the extravagant passion which some people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.

¹⁵⁴
Pope. SEE the wild waste of all devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish like their dead!
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd,
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd!
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods!
Panes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!
Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage;
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preserves a name:
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: She found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust;
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more;
Convinc'd, the, now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps,
Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps;
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each form and name:
In one short view subjected to our eye,
Gods, em'rors, heroes, fages, beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
Thi' inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years:
To gain Pefennius one employs his schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in eclatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd:
And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Their's is the vanity, the learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine;
Her gods and god-like heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage;
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold!
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There, warriors frowning in historic bras;
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then shall thy CRAGGS (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio shine;
With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd."

We have already observed, that the essential, and indeed the true characteristic of epistolary writing, is ease; and on this account, as well as others, the following letter from Mr Pope to Miss Blount is to be admired.

To Miss BLOUNT, on her leaving the Town after the Coronation.

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air;
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh,
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever;
Thus from the world fair Zephairinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew:
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent;
She sigh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from op'ra, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

¹⁵⁴ Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire ;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack ;
Whose game is whilk, whose treat's a toast in sack ;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking bus, and cries,—no words !
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table ;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things—but his horse.
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade ;
In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See coronations rise on every green ;
Before you pass th' imaginary fights
Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'er shades your closing eyes :
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls !
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headaches, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you :
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay puts my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight ;
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look fow, and hum a tune, as you may now.

SECT. VII. Of Descriptive Poetry.

¹⁵⁵ Descriptive poetry is of universal use, since there is nothing in nature but what may be described. As poems of this kind, however, are intended more to delight than to instruct, great care should be taken to make them agreeable. Descriptive poems are made beautiful by similes properly introduced, images of feigned persons, and allusions to ancient fables or historical facts ; as will appear by a perusal of the best of these poems, especially Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, Denham's Cooper Hill, and Pope's Windsor Forest. Every body being in possession of Milton's works, we forbear inserting the two former ; and the others are too long for our purpose. That inimitable poem, The Seasons, by Mr. Thomson, notwithstanding some parts of it are didactic, may be also with propriety referred to this head.

SECT. VIII. Of Allegorical Poetry.

¹⁵⁶ Origin of allegorical poetry. COULD truth engage the affections of mankind in her native and simple dress, she would require no ornaments or aid from the imagination ; but her delicate light, though lovely in itself, and dear to the most discerning, does not strike the senses of the multitude so as to secure their esteem and attention : the poets therefore dressed her up in the manner in which they thought she would appear the most amiable, and called in allegories and airy disguises as her auxiliaries in the cause of virtue.

An allegory is a fable or story, in which, under the

disguise of imaginary persons or things, some real action ^Allegorical. or instructive moral is conveyed to the mind. Every allegory therefore has two senses, the one literal and the other mystical ; the first has been aptly enough compared to a dream or vision, of which the last is the true meaning or interpretation.

From this definition of allegorical poetry the reader's character will perceive that it gives great latitude to genius, and affords such a boundless scope for invention, that the poet is allowed to soar beyond all creation ; to give life and action to virtues, vices, passions, diseases, and natural and moral qualities ; to raise floating islands, enchanted palaces, castles, &c. and to people them with the creatures of his own imagination.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heav'n to earth, from earth to heav'n ;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name. SHAKESPEARE.

But whatever is thus raised by the magic of his mind must be visionary and typical, and the mystical sense must appear obvious to the reader, and inculcate some moral or useful lesson in life ; otherwise the whole will be deemed rather the effects of a distempered brain, than the productions of real wit and genius. The poet, like Jason, may sail to parts unexplored, but will meet with no applause if he returns without a golden fleece ; for these romantic reveries would be unpardonable but for the mystical meaning and moral that is thus artfully and agreeably conveyed with them, and on which account only the allegory is indulged with a greater liberty than any other sort of writing.

The ancients justly considered this sort of allegory as the most essential part of poetry ; for the power of raising images of things not in being, giving them a sort of life and action, and presenting them as it were before the eyes, was thought to have something in it like creation : but then, in such compositions, they always expected to find a meaning couched under them of consequence ; and we may reasonably conclude, that the allegories of their poets would never have been handed down to us, had they been deficient in this respect.

As the fable is the part immediately offered to the reader's consideration, and intended as an agreeable vehicle to convey the moral, it ought to be bold, lively, and surprising, that it may excite curiosity and support attention ; for if the fable be spiritless and barren of invention, the attention will be disengaged, and the moral, however useful and important in itself, will be little regarded.

There must likewise be a justness and propriety in the fable, that is, it must be closely connected with the subject on which it is employed ; for notwithstanding the boundless compass allowed the imagination in these writings, nothing absurd or useless is to be introduced. In epic poetry some things may perhaps be admitted for no other reason but to surprise, and to raise what is called the wonderful, which is as necessary to the epic as the probable ; but in allegories, however wild and extravagant the fable and the persons introduced, each must correspond with the subject they are applied to, and, like the members of a well-written simile, bear a due proportion and relation to each other : for we are

Allegorical to consider, that the allegory is a sort of extended or rather multiplied simile, and therefore, like that, should never lose the subject it is intended to illustrate. Whence it will appear, that genius and fancy are here insufficient without the aid of taste and judgment: these first, indeed, may produce a multitude of ornaments, a wilderness of sweets; but the last must be employed to accommodate them to reason, and to arrange them so as to produce pleasure and profit.

But it is not sufficient that the fable be correspondent with the subject, and have the properties above described; for it must also be consistent with itself. The poet may invent what story he pleases, and form any imaginary beings that his fancy shall suggest; but here, as in dramatic writings, when persons are once introduced, they must be supported to the end, and all speak and act in character: for notwithstanding the general licence here allowed, some order must be observed; and however wild and extravagant the characters, they should not be absurd. To this let me add, that the whole must be clear and intelligible; for the "fable (as Mr Hughes observes) being designed only to clothe and adorn the moral, but not to hide it, should resemble the draperies we admire in some of the ancient statues, in which the folds are not too many nor too thick, but so judiciously ordered, that the shape and beauty of the limbs may be seen through them."—But this will more obviously appear from a perusal of the best compositions of this class; such as Spenser's Fairy Queen, Thomson's Cattle of Indolence, Addison and Johnson's beautiful allegories in the Spectator and Rambler, &c. &c.

The word allegory has been used in a more extensive sense than that in which we have here applied it: for all writings, where the moral is conveyed under the cover of borrowed characters and actions, by which other characters and actions (that are real) are represented, have obtained the name of allegories; though the fable or story contains nothing that is visionary or romantic, but is made up of real or historical persons, and of actions either probable or possible. But these writings should undoubtedly be distinguished by some other name, because the literal sense is consistent with right reason, and may convey an useful moral, and satisfy the reader, without putting him under the necessity of seeking for another.

Some of the ancient critics, as Mr Addison observes, were fond of giving the works of their poets this second or concealed meaning, though there was no apparent necessity for the attempt, and often but little show of reason in the application. Thus the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are said to be fables of this kind, and that the gods and heroes introduced are only the affections of the mind represented in a visible shape and character. They tell us, says he, that Achilles in the first Iliad represents anger, or the irascible part of human nature: that upon drawing his sword against his superior, in a full assembly, Pallas (which, say they, is another name for reason) checks and advises him on the occasion, and at her first appearance touches him upon the head; that part of the man being looked upon as the seat of reason. In this sense, as Mr Hughes has well observed, the whole Æneis of Virgil may be said to be an allegory, if you suppose Æneas to represent Augustus Cæsar, and that his conducting the remains of his countrymen

from the ruins of Troy, to a new settlement in Italy, is Allegorical. an emblem of Augustus's forming a new government out of the ruins of the aristocracy, and establishing the Romans, after the conclusion of the civil war, in a peaceable and flourishing condition. However ingenious this coincidence may appear, and whatever design Virgil had in view, he has avoided a particular and direct application, and so conducted his poem, that it is perfect without any allegorical interpretation; for whether we consider Æneas or Augustus as the hero, the morals contained are equally instructive. And indeed it seems absurd to suppose, that because the epic poets have introduced some allegories into their works, every thing is to be understood in a mystical manner, where the sense is plain and evident without any such application. Nor is the attempt that Tasso made to turn his Jerusalem into a mystery, any particular recommendation of the work: for notwithstanding he tells us, in what is called the allegory, printed with it, that the Christian army represents man, the city of Jerusalem civil happiness, Godfrey the understanding, Rinaldo and Tancred the other powers of the soul, and that the body is typified by the common soldiers and the like; yet the reader will find himself as little delighted as edified by the explication: for the mind has little pleasure in an allegory that cannot be opened without a key made by the hand of the same artist; and indeed every allegory that is so dark, and, as it were, inexplicable, loses its very essence, and becomes an enigma or riddle, that is left to be interpreted by every crude imagination.

This last species of writing, whether called an allegory, or by any other name, is not less eminent and useful; for the introducing of real or historical persons may not abridge or lessen either our entertainment or instruction. In these compositions we often meet with an uncommon moral conveyed by the fable in a new and entertaining manner; or with a known truth so artfully decorated, and placed in such a new and beautiful light, that we are amazed how any thing so charming and useful should so long have escaped our observation. Such, for example, are many of Johnson's pieces published in the Rambler under the title of Eastern Stories, and by Hawkesworth in the Adventurer.

The ancient parables are of this species of writing: and it is to be observed, that those in the New Testament have a most remarkable elegance and propriety; and are the most striking, and the most instructive, for being drawn from objects that are familiar.—The more striking, because, as the things are seen, the moral conveyed becomes the object of our senses, and requires little or no reflection:—the more instructive, because every time they are seen, the memory is awakened, and the same moral is again exhibited with pleasure to the mind, and accustoms it to reason and dwell on the subject. So that this method of instruction improves nature, as it were, into a book of life; since every thing before us may be so managed, as to give lessons for our advantage. Our Saviour's parables of the sower and the seed, of the tares, of the mustard-seed, and of the leaven (Matthew xiii.), are all of this kind, and were obviously taken from the harvest just ripening before him; for his disciples plucked the ears of corn and did eat, rubbing them in their hands. See the articles ALLEGORY, and METAPHOR and Allegory, in the general alphabet.

No method of instruction has been more ancient, more universal, and probably none more effectual, than that by apologue or fable. In the first ages, amongst a rude and fierce people, this perhaps was the only method that would have been borne; and even since the progress of learning has furnished other helps, the fable, which at first was used through necessity, is retained from choice, on account of the elegant happiness of its manner, and the refined address with which, when well conducted, it insinuates its moral.

As to the actors in this little drama, the fabulist has authority to press into his service every kind of existence under heaven; not only beasts, birds, insects, and all the animal creation; but flowers, shrubs, trees, and all the tribe of vegetables. Even mountains, fossils, minerals, and the inanimate works of nature, discourse articulately at his command, and act the part which he assigns them. The virtues, vices, and every property of beings, receive from him a local habitation and a name. In short, he may personify, bestow life, speech, and action, on whatever he thinks proper.

It is easy to imagine what a source of novelty and variety this must open to a genius capable of conceiving and of employing these ideal persons in a proper manner; what an opportunity it affords him to diversify his images, and to treat the fancy with changes of objects, while he strengthens the understanding, or regulates the passions, by a succession of truths. To raise beings like these into a state of action and intelligence, gives the fabulist an undoubted claim to that first character of the poet, a creator.

When these persons are once raised, we must carefully enjoin them proper tasks, and assign them sentiments and language suitable to their several natures and respective properties. A raven should not be extolled for her voice, nor a bear be represented with an elegant shape. It were a very obvious instance of absurdity, to paint a hare cruel, or a wolf compassionate. An ass were but ill qualified to be general of an army, though he may well enough serve, perhaps, for one of the trumpeters. But so long as popular opinion allows to the lion magnanimity, rage to the tiger, strength to the mule, cunning to the fox, and buffoonery to the monkey; why may not they support the characters of an Agamemnon, Achilles, Ajax, Ulysses, and Thersites? The truth is, when moral actions are with judgment attributed to the brute creation, we scarce perceive that nature is at all violated by the fabulist. He appears at most to have only translated their language. His lions, wolves, and foxes, behave and argue as those creatures would, had they originally been endowed with the human faculties of speech and reason.

But greater art is yet required whenever we personify inanimate beings. Here the copy so far deviates from the great lines of nature, that, without the nicest care, reason will revolt against the fiction. However, beings of this sort, managed ingeniously and with address, recommend the fabulist's invention by the grace of novelty and of variety. Indeed the analogy between things natural and artificial, animate and inanimate, is often so very striking, that we can, with seeming propriety, give

passions and sentiments to every individual part of existence. Appearance favours the deception. The vine may be enamoured of the elm; her embraces testify her passion. The swelling mountain may, naturally enough, be delivered of a mouse. The gourd may reproach the pine, and the sky-rocket insult the stars. The axe may solicit a new handle of the forest; and the moon, in her female character, request a fashionable garment. Here is nothing incongruous; nothing that shocks the reader with impropriety. On the other hand, were the axe to desire a peacock, and the moon petition for a new pair of boots, probability would then be violated, and the absurdity become too glaring.

The most beautiful fables that ever were invented may be disguised by the language in which they are clothed. Of this poor Æsop, in some of his English dresses, affords a melancholy proof. The ordinary style of fable should be familiar, but also elegant.

The familiar, says M. La Motte, is the general tone or accent of fable. It was thought sufficient, on its first appearance, to lend the animals our most common language. Nor indeed have they any extraordinary pretensions to the sublime; it being requisite they should speak with the same simplicity that they behave.

The familiar also is more proper for insinuation than the elevated; this being the language of reflection, as the former is the voice of sentiment. We guard ourselves against the one, but lie open to the other; and instruction will always be the most effectually swayed, when it appears least jealous of its rights and privileges.

The familiar style, however, that is here required, notwithstanding that appearance of ease which is its character, is perhaps more difficult to write than the more elevated or sublime. A writer more readily perceives when he has risen above the common language, than he perceives, in speaking this language, whether he has made the choice that is most suitable to the occasion: and it is nevertheless, upon this happy choice that all the charms of the familiar depend. Moreover, the elevated style deceives and seduces, although it be not the best chosen; whereas the familiar can procure itself no sort of respect, if it be not easy, natural, just, delicate, and unaffected. A fabulist must therefore bestow great attention upon his style; and even labour it so much the more, that it may appear to have cost him no pains at all.

The authority of Fontaine justifies these opinions in regard to style. His fables are perhaps the best examples of the gentle familiar, as Sir Roger l'Estrange affords the grossest of the indelicate and low. When we read, that "while the frog and the mouse were disputing it at swords-point, down comes a kite powdering upon them in the interim, and gobbles up both together to part the fray;" and "where the fox reproaches a bevy of jolly gossiping wenches making merry over a dish of pullets, that if he but peeped into a hen-roost, they always made a bawling with their dogs and their bastards; while you yourselves (says he) can lie stuffing your guts with your hens and capons, and not a word of the pudding." This may be familiar; but it is also coarse and vulgar, and cannot fail to disgust a reader that has the least degree of taste or delicacy.

The style of fable then must be simple and familiar; and it must likewise be correct and elegant. By the former,

Of Fables. former, we mean, that it should not be loaded with figure and metaphor; that the disposition of words be natural, the turn of sentences easy, and their construction unembarrassed. By elegance, we would exclude all coarse and provincial terms; all affected and paerile conceits; all obsolete and pedantic phrases. To this we would adjoin, as the word perhaps implies, a certain finishing polish, which gives a grace and spirit to the whole; and which, though it have always the appearance of nature, is almost ever the effect of art.

But notwithstanding all that has been said, there are some occasions on which it is allowable, and even expedient, to change the style. The language of a fable must rise or fall in conformity to the subject. A lion, when introduced in his regal capacity, must hold discourse in a strain somewhat more elevated than a country mouse. The lioness then becomes his queen, and the beasts of the forest are called his subjects; a method that offers at once to the imagination both the animal and the person he is designed to represent. Again, the buffoon-monkey should avoid that pomp of phrase, which the owl employs as her best pretence to wisdom. Unless the style be thus judiciously varied, it will be impossible to preserve a just distinction of character.

Descriptions, at once concise and pertinent, add a grace to fable; but are then most happy when included in the action: whereof the fable of Boreas and the Sun affords us an example. An epithet well chosen is often a description in itself; and so much the more agreeable, as it the less retards us in our pursuit of the catastrophe.

Lastly, little strokes of humour when arising naturally from the subject, and incidental reflections when kept in due subordination to the principal, add a value to these compositions. These latter, however, should be employed very sparingly, and with great address; be very few, and very short: it is scarcely enough that they naturally spring out of the subject; they should be such as to appear necessary and essential parts of the fable. And when these embellishments, pleasing in themselves, tend to illustrate the main action, they then afford that nameless grace remarkable in Fontaine and some few others, and which persons of the best discernment will more easily conceive than they can explain.

SECT. X. Of Satire.

THIS kind of poem is of very ancient date, and (if we believe Horace) was introduced, by way of interlude, by the Greek dramatic poets in their tragedies, to relieve the audience, and take off the force of those strokes which they thought too deep and affecting. In these satirical interludes, the scene was laid in the country; and the persons were rural deities, satyrs, country peasants, and other rustics.

The first Tragedians found that serious style
Too grave for their uncultivated age,
And so brought wild and naked satyrs in
(Whole motion, words, and shape, were all a farce)
As oft as decency would give them leave;
Because the mad, ungovernable rout,
Full of confusion and the fumes of wine,
Lov'd such variety and antic tricks.

ROSCOMMON'S Horace.

The satire we now have is generally allowed to be of Of Satire. Roman invention. It was first introduced without the decorations of scenes and action; but written in verses of different measures by Ennius, and afterwards moulded into the form we now have it by Lucilius, whom Horace has imitated, and mentions with esteem. This is the opinion of most of the critics, and particularly of Boileau, who says,

Lucilius led the way, and bravely bold,
To Roman vices did the mirror hold;
Protected humble goodness from reproach,
Show'd worth on foot, and rascals in a coach.
Horace his pleasing wit to this did add,
That none, unceasur'd, might be fools or mad:
And Juvenal, with rhetorician's rage,
Scourg'd the rank vices of a wicked age;
Tho' horrid truths thro' all his labours shine,
In what he writes there's something of divine.

Our satire, therefore, may be distinguished into two kinds; the jocose, or that which makes sport with vice and folly, and lets them up to ridicule; and the serious, or that which deals in asperity, and is severe and acrimonious. Horace is a perfect master of the first, and Juvenal much admired for the last. The one is facetious, and smiles: the other is angry, and storms. The foibles of mankind are the object of one; but crimes of a deeper dye have engaged the other. They both agree, however, in being pungent and biting: and from a due consideration of the writings of these authors, who are our masters in this art, we may define satire to be, A free, (and often jocose), witty, and sharp poem, wherein the follies and vices of men are lashed and ridiculed in order to their reformation. Its subject is whatever deserves our contempt or abhorrence, (including every thing that is ridiculous and absurd, or scandalous and repugnant to the golden precepts of religion and virtue). Its manner is invective; and its end, shame. So that satire may be looked upon as the physician of a distempered mind, which it endeavours to cure by bitter and unfavoury, or by pleasant and salutary, applications.

A good satirist ought to be a man of wit and ad- ¹⁶⁴Qualities dres, sagacity and eloquence. He should also have a good great deal of good-nature, as all the sentiments which are beautiful in this way of writing must proceed from that quality in the author. It is good-nature produces that disdain of all baseness, vice, and folly, which prompts the poet to express himself with such smartness against the errors of men, but without bitterness to their persons. It is this quality that keeps the mind even, and never lets an offence unseasonably throw the satirist out of his character.

In writing satire, care should be taken that it be true and general; that is, levelled at abuses in which numbers are concerned: for the personal kind of satire, or lampoon, which exposes particular characters, and affects the reputation of those at whom it is pointed, is scarcely to be distinguished from scandal and defamation. The poet also, whilst he is endeavouring to correct the guilty, must take care not to use such expressions as may corrupt the innocent: he must therefore avoid all obscene words and images that tend to debase and mislead the mind. Horace and Juvenal, the chief satirists among

Of Satire. among the Romans, are faulty in this respect, and ought to be read with caution.

166 Proper style of satire. The style proper for satire is sometimes grave and animated, inveighing against vice with warmth and earnestness; but that which is pleasant, sportive, and, with becoming raillery, banter men out of their bad dispositions, has generally the best effect, as it seems only to play with their follies, though it omits no opportunity of making them feel the lash. The verses should be smooth and flowing, and the language manly, just, and decent.

Of well-chosen words some take not care enough, And think they should be as the subject rough:
But satire must be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd.

DUKE OF BUCKS'S Essay.

Satires, either of the jocose or serious kind, may be written in the epistolary manner, or by way of dialogue. Horace, Juvenal, and Persius, have given us examples of both. Nay, some of Horace's satires may, without incongruity, be called epistles, and his epistles satires. But this is obvious to every reader.

Of the facetious kind, the second satire of the second book of Horace imitated by Mr Pope, and Swift's verses on his own death, may be referred to as examples.

As to those satires of the serious kind, for which Juvenal is so much distinguished, the characteristic properties of which are, morality, dignity, and severity; a better example cannot be mentioned than the poem entitled London, written in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal, by Dr Johnson, who has kept up to the spirit and force of the original.

Nor must we omit to mention Dr Young's Love of Fame the Universal Passion, in seven satires; which, though characteristical, abound with morality and good sense. The characters are well selected, the ridicule is high, and the satire well pointed and to the purpose.

We have already observed, that personal satire approaches too near defamation, to deserve any countenance or encouragement. Dryden's Mack Flecknoe is for this reason exceptionable, but as a composition it is inimitable.

167 Benefits of well-conducted satire. We have dwelt thus long on the present subject, because there is reason to apprehend, that the benefits arising from well-conducted satire have not been sufficiently considered. A satire may often do more service to the cause of religion and virtue than a sermon; since it gives pleasure, at the same time that it creates fear or indignation, and conveys its sentiments in a manner the most likely to captivate the mind.

Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age and mortify mankind,
Satire well writ has most successful prov'd,
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd.

DUKE OF BUCKS'S Essay.

But to produce the desired effect, it must be jocose, free, and impartial, though severe. The satirist should always preserve good humour; and, however keen he cuts, should cut with kindness. When he loses temper, his weapons will be inverted, and the ridicule he threw at others will retort with contempt upon himself: for

the reader will perceive that he is angry and hurt, and consider his satire as the effect of malice, not of judgement; and that it is intended rather to wound persons than reform manners.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down:
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown.

The best, and indeed the only, method to expose vice and folly effectually, is to turn them to ridicule, and hold them up for public contempt; and as it most offends these objects of satire, so it least hurts ourselves. One passion frequently drives out another; and as we cannot look with indifference on the bad actions of men (for they must excite either our wrath or contempt), it is prudent to give way to that which most offends vice and folly, and least affects ourselves; and to face and laugh, rather than be angry and scold.

168 Burlesque poetry. Burlesque poetry, which is chiefly used by way of drollery and ridicule, falls properly to be spoken of under the head of satire. An excellent example of this kind is a poem in blank verse, intitled The Splendid Hudibras. Shilling, written by Mr John Philips, which, in the opinion of one of the best judges of the age, is the finest burlesque in the English language. In this poem the author has handled a low subject in the lofty style and numbers of Milton; in which way of writing Mr Philips has been imitated by several, but none have come up to the humour and happy turn of the original. When we read it, we are betrayed into a pleasure that we could not expect; though, at the same time, the sublimity of the style, and gravity of the phrase, seem to chastise that laughter which they provoke.

There is another sort of verse and style, which is most frequently made use of in treating any subject in a ludicrous manner, viz. that which is generally called Hudibrastic, from Butler's admirable poem intitled Hudibras. Almost every one knows, that this poem is a satire upon the authors of our civil dissensions in the reign of King Charles I. wherein the poet has, with abundance of wit and humour, exposed and ridiculed the hypocrisy or blind zeal of those unhappy times. In short, it is a kind of burlesque epic poem, which, for the oddity of the rhymes, the quaintness of the similes, the novelty of the thoughts, and that fine raillery which runs through the whole performance, is not to be paralleled.

SECT. XI. Of the Epigram.

169 THE epigram is a little poem, or composition in verse, treating of one thing only, and whose distinguishing characters are, brevity, beauty, and point.

The word epigram signifies "inscription;" for epigrams derive their origin from those inscriptions placed by the ancients on their statues, temples, pillars, triumphal arches, and the like; which, at first, were very short, being sometimes no more than a single word; but afterwards, increasing their length, they made them in verse, to be the better retained by the memory. This short way of writing came at last to be used upon any occasion or subject; and hence the name of epigram has been given to any little copy of verses, without regard to the original application of such poems.

Its usual limits are from two to 20 verses, though sometimes it extends to 50; but the shorter, the better it is, and the more perfect, as it partakes more of the

nature and character of this kind of poem: besides, the epigram, being only a single thought, ought to be expressed in a little compass, or else it loses its force and strength.

The beauty required in an epigram is an harmony and apt agreement of all its parts, a sweet simplicity, and polite language.

The point is a sharp, lively, unexpected turn of wit, with which an epigram ought to be concluded. There are some critics, indeed, who will not admit the point in an epigram; but require that the thought be equally diffused through the whole poem, which is usually the practice of Catullus, as the former is that of Martial. It is allowed there is more delicacy in the manner of Catullus; but the point is more agreeable to the general taste, and seems to be the chief characteristic of the epigram.

This sort of poem admits of all manner of subjects, provided that brevity, beauty, and point, are preserved; but it is generally employed either in praise or satire.

Though the best epigrams are said to be such as are comprised in two or four verses, we are not to understand it as if none can be perfect which exceed those limits. Neither the ancients nor moderns have been so scrupulous with respect to the length of their epigrams; but, however, brevity in general is always to be studied in these compositions.

For examples of good epigrams in the English language, we shall make choice of several in the different tastes we have mentioned; some remarkable for their delicate turn and simplicity of expression; and others for their salt and sharpness, their equivocating pun, or pleasant allusion. In the first place, take that of Mr Pope, said to be written on a glass with the earl of Chesterfield's diamond-pencil.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit;
See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.

The beauty of this epigram is more easily seen than described; and it is difficult to determine, whether it does more honour to the poet who wrote it, or to the nobleman for whom the compliment is designed.—The following epigram of Mr Prior is written in the same taste, being a fine encomium on the performance of an excellent painter.

On a Flower, painted by VARELST.

When fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view;
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand,
And, finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine which ne'er shall fade.

Another compliment of this delicate kind he has made Mr Howard in the following epigram.

VENUS Mistaken.

When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown;
Surpris'd, the goddess took it for her own.
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?
Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride:
And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cry'd.

'Tis Chloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast:
Friend Howard's genius fancy'd all the rest.

Most of Mr Prior's epigrams are of this delicate cast, and have the thought, like those of Catullus, diffused through the whole. Of this kind is his address

To CHLOE Weeping.

See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Chloe, see
The world in sympathy with thee.
The cheerful birds no longer sing,
Each drops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bosom lower,
And shed their sorrow in a shower.
The brooks beyond their limits flow,
And louder murmurs speak their woe:
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares;
They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that grief should move
Thy heart obdurate against love.
Strange tears! whose pow'r can soften all
But that dear breast on which they fall.

The epigram written on the leaves of a fan by Dr Atterbury, late bishop of Rochester, contains a pretty thought, expressed with ease and conciseness, and closed in a beautiful manner.

On a FAN.

Flavia the least and slightest toy
Can with refilled art employ.
This fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of small force in love.
Yet she, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told or safely seen,
Directs its wanton motion so,
That it wounds more than Cupid's bow,
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
To ev'ry other breast a flame.

We shall now select some epigrams of the biting and for their satirical kind, and such as turn upon the pun or equi-point, vague, as the French call it: in which sort the point is more conspicuous than in those of the former character.

The following distich is an admirable epigram, having all the necessary qualities of one, especially point and brevity.

On a Company of bad DANCERS to good Music.

How ill the motion with the music suits!
So Orpheus fiddled, and so dance'd the brutes.

This brings to mind another epigram upon a bad fiddler, which we shall venture to insert merely for the humour of it, and not for any real excellence it contains.

To a bad FIDDLER.

Old Orpheus play'd so well, he mov'd Old Nick;
But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle stick.

One of Martial's epigrams, where he agreeably rallies the foolish vanity of a man who hired people to make verses for him, and publish them as his own, has been thus translated into English.

Paul, so fond of the name of a poet is grown,
With gold he buys verses, and calls them his own.

Go on, master Paul, nor mind what the world says,
They are surely his own for which a man pays.

Some bad writer having taken the liberty to censure
Mr Prior, the poet very wittily lashed his impertinence
in this epigram:

While faster than his cossive brain indites
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes,
His case appears to me like honest Teague's
When he was run away with by his legs.
Phæbus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand:
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
So he may cease to write, and learn to think.

Mr Wesley has given us a pretty epigram, alluding
to a well-known text of Scripture on the setting up a
monument in Westminster Abbey, to the memory of the
ingenious Mr Butler, author of Hudibras.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give.
See him when starv'd to death, and turn'd to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust!
The poet's fate is here in emblem shewn;
He ask'd for Bread, and he receiv'd a Stone.

We shall close this section with an epigram written
on the well-known story of Apollo and Daphne, by Mr
Smart.

When Phæbus was am'rous and long'd to be rude,
Mifs Daphne cry'd Pish! and ran swift to the wood;
And rather than do such a naughty affair,
She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair.
The nymph was, no doubt, of a cold constitution;
For sure, to turn tree was an odd resolution!
Yet in this she behav'd like a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.

THESE compositions generally contain some eulogium
of the virtues and good qualities of the deceased, and
have a turn of seriousness and gravity adapted to the
nature of the subject. Their elegance consists in a
nervous and expressive brevity; and sometimes they are
closed with an epigrammatic point. In these compo-
sitions, no mere epithet (properly so called) should be
admitted: for here illustration would impair the
strength, and render the sentiment too diffuse and
languid. Words that are synonymous are also to be
rejected.

Though the true characteristic of the epitaph is se-
riousness and gravity, yet we may find many that are
jocose and ludicrous: some likewise have true metre
and rhyme; while others are between prose and verse,
without any certain measure, though the words are truly
poetical; and the beauty of this last sort is generally
heightened by an apt and judicious antithesis. We
shall give examples of each.

The following epitaph on Sir Philip Sydney's sister,
the countess of Pembroke, said to be written by the fa-
mous Ben Jonson, is remarkable for the noble thought
with which it concludes.

Underneath this marble hearfe,
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast kill'd another
Fair, and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Take another epitaph of Ben Jonson's, on a beauti-
ful and virtuous lady, which has been deservedly admir-
ed by very good judges.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die;
Which when alive did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.

The following epitaph by Dr Samuel Johnson, on a
musician much celebrated for his performance, will bear
a comparison with these, or perhaps with any thing of
the kind in the English language.

Philips! whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love,
Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more;
Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

It is the just observation of an eminent critic, that
the best subject for epitaphs is private virtue; virtue
exerted in the same circumstances in which the bulk of
mankind are placed, and which, therefore, may admit
of many imitators. He that has delivered his country
from oppression, or freed the world from ignorance and
error, besides that he stands in no need of monumental
panegyric, can excite the emulation of a very small
number. The bare name of such men answers every
purpose of a long inscription, because their achievements
are universally known, and their fame is immortal.—
But the virtues of him who has repelled the tempta-
tions of poverty, and disdained to free himself from di-
stress at the expence of his honour or his conscience, as
they were practised in private, are fit to be told, because
they may animate multitudes to the same firmness of
heart and steadiness of resolution. On this account,
there are few epitaphs of more value than the following,
which was written by Pope on Mrs Corbet, who died
of a cancer in her breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she, but o'er herself desir'd;
No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind,
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so resign'd,
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd;
The faint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.

This epitaph, as well as the second quoted from Ben
Jonson, has indeed one fault; the name is omitted.
The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the
dead; and to what purpose is any thing told of him
whose

whose name is concealed? The name, it is true, may be inscribed by itself upon the stone; but such a flit of the poet is like that of an unskillful painter, who is obliged to make his purpose known by adventitious help.

Amongst the epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous cast, we know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr Prior on himself, wherein he is pleasantly satirical upon the folly of those who value themselves upon account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve:
Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

The following epitaph on a miser contains a good caution and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immod'rate love of self:
Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself.

But Dr Swift's epitaph on the same subject is a masterpiece of the kind.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demer, the wealthy and the wife.
His heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcase in a chest:
The very chest, in which, they say,
His other Self, his money, lay.
And if his heirs continue kind
To that dear self he left behind,
I dare believe that four in five
Will think his better half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry epitaph on an old fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own music.

On STEPHEN the Fiddler.

Stephen and time are now both even;
Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

We are come now to that sort of epitaph which rejects rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preferred in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of epitaph than that on the tomb of Mr Pulteney in the cloisters of Westminster-abbey.

Reader,
If thou art a BRITON,
Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret:
Here lie the Remains of
DANIEL PULTENEY,
The kindest Relation, the truest Friend,
The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man.
He exercised Virtues in this Age,
Sufficient to have distinguish'd him even in the best,
Sagacious by Nature,
Industrious by Habit,
Inquisitive with art;
He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the state of Britain,
Foreign and Domestic;

In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience,
In him the early acquisition of undisciplined Youth.

He serv'd the Court several Years:

A abroad, in the auspicious reign of Queen Anne;
At home, in the reign of that excellent prince R. George I.

He serv'd his Country always,

At Court independent,

In the Senate unbia's'd,

At every Age, and in every Station,
This was the bent of his generous Soul,
This the business of his laborious Life.

Public Men, and Public Things,

He judged by one constant Standard,

The True Interest of Britain:

He made no other Distinction of Party,

He abhorred all other.

Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent,
He created no Enemies on his own Account:

Firm, determined, inflexible,

He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain.

Reader,

In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own:

For know

The Loss of so much private Virtue

Is a public Calamity.

That poignant satire, as well as extravagant praise, satirical, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following epitaph written by Dr Arbuthnot on Francis Charteris; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.

HERE continueth to rot

The body of FRANCIS CHARTERIS,

Who with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY,

And INIMITABLE UNIFORMITY of Life,

PERSISTED,

In spite of AGE and INFIRMITIES,

In the Practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE,

Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY:

His insatiable AVARICE exempted him from the first,
His matchless IMPUDENCE from the second.

Nor was he more singular

In the undeviating Pravity of his Manners,
Than successful

In Accumulating WEALTH:

For, without TRADE or PROFESSION,

Without TRUST of PUBLIC MONEY,

And without BRIBE-WORTHY SERVICE,

He acquired, or more properly created,

A MINISTERIAL ESTATE.

He was the only Person of his Time

Who could CHEAT without the Mask of HONESTY;

Retain his Primitive MEANNESS

When possessed of TEN THOUSAND a-year;

And having daily deserved the GIBBET for what he did,
Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do.

Oh indignant reader!

Think not his Life useless to Mankind;

PROVIDENCE conniv'd at his execrable designs,

To give to After-ages

A conspicuous PROOF and EXAMPLE

Of how small Estimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH

In the Sight of GOD,

By His bestowing it on the most UNWORTHY of ALL
MORTALS.

We

We shall conclude this species of poetry with a droll and satirical epitaph written by Mr Pope, which we transcribed from a monument in Lord Cobham's gardens at Stow in Buckinghamshire.

To the Memory
of
SIGNOR FIDO,
An Italian of good extraction;
Who came into England,
Not to bite us, like most of his Countrymen,
But to gain an honest Livelihood.
He hunted not after Fame,
Yet acquir'd it;
Regardless of the Praise of his Friends,
But most sensible of their Love,
Though he liv'd amongst the Great,
He neither learnt nor flatter'd any Vice.
He was no Bigot,
Though he doubted of none of the 39 Articles.

And, if to follow Nature,
And to respect the laws of Society,
Be Philosophy,
He was a perfect Philosopher,
A faithful Friend,
An agreeable Companion,
A loving Husband
Distinguish'd by a numerous offspring,
All which he liv'd to see take good Courses.
In his old Age he retired
To the house of a Clergyman in the country,
Where he finished his earthly Race,
And died an Honour and an Example to the whole Species.
Reader,
This Stone is guiltless of Flattery;
For he to whom it is inscrib'd
Was not a MAN,
But a
GRE-HOUND.

ON this subject it is meant to confine our inquiry to Latin or Greek hexameters, and to French and English heroic verse; as the observations we shall have occasion to make, may, with proper variations, be easily transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse.

Before entering upon particulars, it must be premised in general, that to verse of every kind five things are of importance. 1st, The number of syllables that compose a line. 2d, The different lengths of syllables, i. e. the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d, The arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th, The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, Pronouncing syllables in a high or a low tone. The three first mentioned are obviously essential to verse: if any of them be wanting, there cannot be that higher degree of melody which distinguisheth verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are necessary for three different purposes: one, to separate periods, and members of the same period, according to the sense; another, to improve the melody of verse: and the last, to afford opportunity for drawing breath in reading. A pause of the first kind is variable, being long or short, frequent or less frequent, as the sense requires. A pause of the second kind, being determined by the melody, is in no degree arbitrary. The last sort is in a measure arbitrary, depending on the reader's command of breath. But as one cannot read with grace, unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken of a pause in the sense or in the melody, this pause ought never to be distinguished from the others; and for that reason shall be laid aside. With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be affirmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital beauty: but as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, that every line should be so perfect; we shall afterward have occasion to see, that, unless the reader be uncommonly skilful, the pause necessary for the sense must often, in some degree, be sacrificed to the verse-pause, and the latter sometimes to the former.

The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone con-

tributes also to melody. In reading, whether verse or prose, a certain tone is assumed, which may be called the key-note; and in that tone the bulk of the words are founded. Sometimes to humour the sense, and sometimes the melody, a particular syllable is founded in a higher tone, and this is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing it with an accent. Opposed to the accent is the cadence, which, however, being entirely regulated by the sense, hath no peculiar relation to verse. The cadence is a falling of the voice below the key-note at the close of every period; and so little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading the final syllable of every line is accented, that syllable only excepted which closes the period, where the sense requires a cadence.

Though the five requisites above mentioned enter the composition of every species of verse, they are however governed by different rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to every species of verse. That syllables, with respect to the time taken in pronouncing, are long or short; two short syllables, with respect to time, being precisely equal to a long one. These two lengths are essential to verse of all kinds; and to no verse, it is believed, is a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The voice indeed is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a word that bears an important signification; but this is done to humour the sense, and is not necessary for melody. A thing not more necessary for melody occurs with respect to accenting, similar to that now mentioned: A word signifying any thing humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, in prose as well as in verse, pronounced in a tone below the key-note.

We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars; beginning with Latin or Greek hexameter, which are the same. The observations upon this species of verse will come under the four following heads; number, arrangement, pause, and accent; for as to quantity, what is observed above may suffice.

I. HEXAMETER LINES, as to time, are all of the same length; being equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables or twenty-four short. An hexameter line may consist of seventeen syllables; and when regular and not spondee it never has fewer than thirteen; whence it follows, that where the syllables are many, the plurality must be short; where few, the plurality must be long.

This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of long and short syllables. It is, however, subjected to laws that confine its variety within certain limits: and for ascertaining these limits, grammarians have invented a rule by dactyles and spondees, which they denominate feet.

Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, these feet regulated the pronunciation, which they are far from doing among us; of which the reason will be discovered from the explanation that we shall give of the English accent. We shall at present content ourselves with pointing out the difference between our pronunciation and that of the Romans in the first line of Virgil's eclogues, where it is scarcely credible how much we pervert the quantity.

Tit'yre tū patulæ rec'ubans sub tēg'mine fāgi.

It will be acknowledged by every reader who has an ear, that we have placed the accentual marks upon every syllable, and the letter of every syllable, that an Englishman marks with the stus of his voice when he recites the line. But, as will be seen presently, a syllable which is pronounced with the stress of the voice upon a consonant is uttered in the shortest time possible. Hence it follows, that in this verse, as recited by us, there are but two long syllables, tū and fāgi; though it is certain, that, as recited by a Roman, it contained no fewer than eight long syllables.

Tit'yre | tū patulæ rec'ubans sub | tēg'mine | fāgi.

But though to pronounce it in this manner with the voice dwelling on the vowel of each long syllable would undoubtedly be correct, and preserve the true movement of the verse, yet to an English ear, prejudiced in behalf of a different movement, it sounds so very uncouth, that Lord Kames has pronounced the true feet of the Greek and Roman verses extremely artificial and complex; and has substituted in their stead the following rules, which he thinks more simple and of more easy application. 1st, The line must always commence with a long syllable, and close with two long preceded by two short. 2d, More than two short can never be found together, nor fewer than two. And, 3d, Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short cannot also be followed by two short. These few rules fulfil all the conditions of a hexameter line with relation to order or arrangement. For these again a single rule may be substituted, which has also the advantage of regulating more affirmatively the construction of every part. To put this rule into words with perspicuity, a hint is taken from the twelve long syllables that compose a hexameter line, to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions, being each of them one long syllable or two short. The rule then is: "The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th portions, must each of them be one long syllable; the 10th must always be two short syllables; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may either be one

long or two short." Or to express the thing still more shortly, "The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable or two short; the 10th must be two short syllables; all the rest must consist each of one long syllable." This fulfils all the conditions of an hexameter line, and comprehends all the combinations of dactyles and spondees that this line admits.

Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every hexameter line, every one must be sensible of a complete close or full pause; the cause of which follows. The considered two long syllables preceded by two short, which always close a hexameter line, are a fine preparation for a pause: for long syllables, or syllables pronounced slow, resembling a slow and languid motion tending to rest, naturally incline the mind to rest, or, which is the same, to pause; and to this inclination the two preceding short syllables contribute, which, by contrast, make the slow pronunciation of the final syllables the more conspicuous. Beside this complete close or full pause at the end, others are also requisite for the sake of melody; of which two are clearly discoverable, and perhaps there may be more. The longest and most remarkable succeeds the 5th portion: the other, which, being shorter and more faint, may be called the semipause, succeeds the 8th portion. So striking is the pause first mentioned, as to be distinguished even by the rudest ear: the monkish rhymes are evidently built upon it; in which, by an invariable rule, the final word always chimes with that which immediately precedes the pause:

De planctu eudo || metrum cum carmine nudo
Mingere cum bumbis || res est saluberrima lumbis.

The difference of time in the pause and semipause occasions another difference not less remarkable; that it is lawful to divide a word by a semipause, but never by a pause, the bad effect of which is sensibly felt in the following examples:

Effusus labor, at||que inmitis rupta Tyranni

Again:

Observans nido im||plumes detraxit; at illa

Again:

Loricam quam De||moleo detraxerat ipse

The dividing a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect:

Jamque pedem referens || calus e|vaferat omnes.

Again:

Qualis populea || moerens Philo|mela sub umbra

Again:

Ludere quæ vellem || calamo per|misit agresti.

Lines, however, where words are left entire, without being divided even by a semipause, run by that means much the more sweetly.

Nec gemere ærea || cessabit | turtur ab ulmo.

Again:

Quadrupedante putrem || sonitu quatit | ungula campum.

Again:

Eurydicen toto || referebant | flumine ripe.

The reason of these observations will be evident upon the slightest reflection. Between things so intimately connected

Verfification. connected in reading aloud as are sense and sound, every degree of discord is unpleasant: and for that reason it is a matter of importance to make the musical pauses coincide as much as possible with those of sense; which is requisite more especially with respect to the pause, a deviation from the rule being less remarkable in a semi-pause. Considering the matter as to melody solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses be at the end of words or in the middle; but when we carry the sense along, it is disagreeable to find a word split into two by a pause, as if there were really two words: and though the disagreeableness here be connected with the sense only, it is by an easy transition of perceptions transferred to the sound; by which means we conceive a line to be harsh and grating to the ear, when in reality it is only so to the understanding.

To the rule that fixes the pause after the 5th portion there is one exception and no more. If the syllable succeeding the 5th portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it.

Pupillis quos dura || premit custodia matrum

Again:

In terras oppressa || gravi sub religione

Again:

Et quorum pars magna || fui; quis talia fando

This contributes to diversify the melody; and, where the words are smooth and liquid, is not ungraceful; as in the following examples:

Formosam resonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas

Again:

Agricolas, quibus ipsa || procul discordibus armis

If this pause, placed as aforesaid after the short syllable, happen also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally annihilated. Witness the following line of Ennius, which is plain prose:

Romae mœnia terru||it impiger | Hannibal armis.

Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of a hexameter line, and its different pauses, have been considered with respect to melody: but to have a just notion of hexameter verse, these particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There is not perhaps in any other sort of verse such latitude in the long and short syllables; a circumstance that contributes greatly to that richness of melody which is remarkable in hexameter verse, and which made Aristotle pronounce that an epic poem in any other verse would not succeed*. One defect, however, must not be dissembled, that the same means which contribute to the richness of the melody render it less fit than several other sorts for a narrative poem. There cannot be a more artful contrivance, as above observed, than to close an hexameter line with two long syllables preceded by two short: but unhappily this construction proves a great embarrassment to the sense; which will thus be evident. As in general there ought to be a strict concordance between the thought and the words in which it is dressed; so, in particular, every close in the sense ought to be accompanied with a close in the sound. In prose this law may be strictly observed, but in verse the same strictness would

occasion insuperable difficulties. Willing to sacrifice to the melody of verse some share of the concordance between thought and expression, we freely excuse the separation of the musical pause from that of the sense during the course of a line; but the close of an hexameter line is too conspicuous to admit this liberty: for which reason there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every hexameter line, were it but such a pause as is marked by a comma; and for the same reason there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a line, because there the melody is closed. An hexameter line, to preserve its melody, cannot well admit any great relaxation; and yet, in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to adhere strictly to the rule even with these indulgences. Virgil, the chief of poets for versification, is forced often to end a line without any close in the sense, and as often to close the sense during the running of a line; though a close in the melody during the movement of the thought, or a close in the thought during the movement of the melody, cannot be agreeable.

The accent, to which we proceed, is not less essential ²⁸³ than the other circumstances above noticed. By a good ^{Observations on the accent.} ear it will be discerned, that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable from the rest by a capital accent: That syllable, being the seventh portion, is invariably long.

Nec bene promeritis || capitûr nec | tangitur ira

Again:

Non fibi sed toto || genitûm se | credere mundo

Again:

Qualis spelunca || subitô com|nota columba

In these examples the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a word; which is favourable to the melody in the following respect, that the pause, which for the sake of reading distinctly must follow every word, gives opportunity to prolong the accent. And for that reason, a line thus accented has a more spirited air than when the accent is placed on any other syllable. Compare the foregoing lines with the following.

Alba neque Assyrio || facâtur | lana veneno

Again:

Panditur interea || domus òmni|p̄tentis Olympi

Again:

Olli sedato || respôndit | corde Latinus.

In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeeding the 5th portion, the accent is displaced, and rendered less sensible: it seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th portion, and partly on the 7th, its usual place; as in

Nuda genu, nodôque || finûs collecta fluentes.

Again:

Formosam resonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas.

Beside this capital accent, lighter accents are laid upon other portions; particularly upon the 4th, unless where it consists of two short syllables; upon the 9th, which is always a long syllable; and upon the 11th, where

182
Sense.

* Poet.
cap. 25.

where the line concludes with a monosyllable. Such conclusion, by the by, impairs the melody, and for that reason is not to be indulged unless where it is expressive of the sense. The following lines are marked with all the accents.

Ludere quæ velleam calamō permittit agreſti

Again :

Et duræ quercus fudabunt rōſcida mella

Again :

Parturiunt mōntes, naſcitur rōdiculū mus.

Reflecting upon the melody of hexameter verſe, we find, that order or arrangement doth not conſtitute the whole of it : for when we compare different lines, equally regular as to the ſucceſſion of long and ſhort ſyllables, the melody is found in very different degrees of perfection ; which is not occaſioned by any particular combination of dactyles and ſpondees, or of long and ſhort ſyllables, becauſe we find lines where dactyles prevail, and lines where ſpondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following inſtance :

Æneadum genitrix hominum divumque voluptas.

Of the latter :

Molli paulatim flavescet campus ariſta.

What can be more different as to melody than the two following lines, which, however, as to the ſucceſſion of long and ſhort ſyllables, are conſtructed preciſely in the ſame manner ?

Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond.

Ad talos ſtola dimiſſa et circumdata palla. HOR.

Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond.

Placatumque nitet diſſuſo lumine cælum. LUCRET.

In the former, the pauſe falls in the middle of a word, which is a great blemish, and the accent is diſturbed by a harsh elition of the vowel a upon the particle et. In the latter, the pauſes and the accent are all of them diſtinct and full : there is no elition : and the words are more liquid and ſounding. In theſe particulars conſiſts the beauty of an hexameter line with reſpect to melody ; and by neglecting theſe, many lines in the fatires and epiſtles of Horace are leſs agreeable than plain proſe ; for they are neither the one nor the other in perfection. To draw melody from theſe lines, they muſt be pronounced without relation to the ſenſe : it muſt not be regarded that words are divided by pauſes, nor that harsh elitions are multiplied. To add to the account, proſaic low-ſounding words are introduced ; and, which is ſtill worſe, accents are laid on them. Of ſuch faulty lines take the following inſtances.

Candida rectaque fit, munda haſtenus fit neque longa.

Jupiter exclamat ſimul atque audit ; at in ſe

Cuſtodes, leſtica, cinifones, paraſite

Optimus eſt modulator, ut Alſenus Vaſer omni

Nunc illud tantum quaeram, meritone tibi fit.

These obſervations on pauſes and ſemi-pauſes, and on the ſtructure of an hexameter line, are doubtleſs ingeni-

ous ; but it is by no means certain that a ſtrict attention to them would aſſiſt any man in the writing of ſuch verſes as would have been pleaſing to a Roman ear. Many of his lordſhip's rules have no other foundation than what reſts on our improper mode of accenting Latin words ; which to Virgil or Lucretius would probably have been as offenſive as the Scotch accent is to a native of Middleſex.

II. Next in order comes ENGLISH HEROIC VERSE ; which ſhall be examined under the heads of number, accent, quantity, movement, and pauſe. Theſe have been treated in ſo clear and maſterly a manner by Sheridan in his Art of Reading, that we ſhall have little more to do than abridge his doctrine, and point out the few inſtances in which attachment to a ſyſtem and partiality to his native tongue ſeem to have betrayed him into error, or at leaſt made him carry to an extreme what is juſt only when uſed with moderation.

"Numbers, in the ſtrict ſenſe of the word *, whether with regard to poetry or muſe, conſiſt in certain impreſſions made on the ear at ſtated and regular diſtances. The loweſt ſpecies of numbers is a double ſtroke of the ſame note or ſound, repeated a certain number of times, at equal diſtances. The repetition of the ſame ſingle note in a continued ſeries, and exactly at equal diſtances, like the ticking of a clock, has in it nothing numerous ; but the ſame note, twice ſtruck a certain number of times, with a pauſe between each repetition of double the time of that between the ſtrokes, is numerous. The reaſon is, that the pleaſure ariſing from numbers, conſiſts in the obſervation of proportion ; now the repetition of the ſame note, in exactly the ſame intervals, will admit of no proportion. But the ſame note twice ſtruck, with the pauſe of one between the two ſtrokes, and repeated again at the diſtance of a pauſe equal to two, admits of the proportional meaſurement in the pauſes of two to one, to which time can be beaten, and is the loweſt and ſimpleſt ſpecies of numbers. It may be exemplified on the drum, as tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum, &c.

"The next progreſſion of numbers is, when the ſame note is repeated, but in ſuch a way as that one makes a more ſenſible impreſſion on the ear than the other, by being more forcibly ſtruck, and therefore having a greater degree of loudneſs ; as ti-tum-ti-tum ; or, tum-ti-tum-ti : or when two weak notes precede a more forcible one, as ti-ti-tum-ti-ti-tum ; or when the weak notes follow the forcible one, tum-ti-ti-tum-ti-ti.

"In the firſt and loweſt ſpecies of numbers which we have mentioned, as the notes are exactly the ſame in every reſpect, there can be no proportion obſerved but in the time of the pauſes. In the ſecond, which riſes in a degree juſt above the other, though the notes are ſtill the ſame, yet there is a diverſity to be obſerved in their reſpective loudneſs and ſoftneſs, and therefore a meaſurable proportion of the quantity of ſound. In them we muſt likewiſe take into conſideration the order of the notes, whether they proceed from ſtrong to weak, or from weak to ſtrong ; for this diverſity of order occaſions a great difference in the impreſſions made upon the ear, and in the effects produced upon the mind. To expreſs the diverſity of order in the notes in all its ſeveral kinds, the common term movement may be uſed, as the term meaſure will properly enough expreſs the different proportions of time both in the pauſes and in the notes."

For it is to be observed, that all notes are not of the same length or on the same key. In poetry, as well as in music, notes may be high or low, flat or sharp; and some of them may be prolonged at pleasure. "Poetic numbers are indeed founded upon the very same principles with those of the musical kind, and are governed by similar laws (see MUSIC). Proportion and order are the sources of the pleasure which we receive from both; and the beauty of each depends upon a due observation of the laws of measure and movement. The essential difference between them is, that the matter of the one is articulate, that of the other inarticulate sounds: but syllables in the one correspond to notes in the other; poetic feet to musical bars; and verses to strains; in a word, they have all like properties, and are governed by laws of the same kind.

"From what has been said, it is evident, that the essence of numbers consists in certain impressions made on the mind through the ear at stated and regular distances of time, with an observation of a relative proportion in those distances; and that the other circumstances of long or short in syllables, or diversity of notes in uttering them, are not essentials but only accidents of poetic numbers. Should this be questioned, the objector might be silenced by having the experiment tried on a drum, on which, although it is incapable of producing long or short, high or low notes, there is no kind of metre which may not be beat. That, therefore, which regulates the series and movement of the impressions given to the ear by the recitation of an English verse, must, when properly disposed, constitute the essence of English poetic numbers; but it is the accent which particularly impresses the sound of certain syllables or letters upon the ear; for in every word there is a syllable or letter accented. The necessity and use of the accent, as well in prose as in verse, we shall therefore proceed to explain.

"As words may be formed of various numbers of syllables, from one up to eight or nine*, it was necessary that there should be some peculiar mark to distinguish words from disjointed syllables, otherwise speech would be nothing but a continued succession of syllables conveying no ideas. This distinction of one word from another might be made by a perceptible pause at the end of each in speaking, analogous to the distance made between them in writing and in printing. But these pauses would make discourse disgustingly tedious; and though they might render words sufficiently distinct, they would make the meaning of sentences extremely confused. Words might also be distinguished from each other, and from a collection of detached syllables, by an elevation or depression of the voice upon one syllable of each word; and this, as is well known to the learned, was the practice of the Greeks and Romans. But the English tongue has for this purpose adopted a mark of the easiest and simplest kind, which is called accent. By accent is meant, a certain stress of the voice, upon a particular letter of a syllable, which distinguishes it from the rest, and at the same time distinguishes the syllable itself to which it belongs from the other syllables which compose the word. Thus, in the word habits, the accent upon the b distinguishes that letter from the others, and the first syllable from the last; add more syllables to it, and it will still do the same, as habitable. In the word accept, the p is the distinguished letter, and the syllable

which contains it the distinguished syllable; but if we add more syllables to it, as in the word acceptable, the seat of the accent is changed to the first syllable, of which c is the distinguished letter. Every word in our language of more syllables than one has one of the syllables distinguished from the rest in this manner, and every monosyllable has a letter. Thus, in the word hat the t is accented, in hate the vowel a, in cab the b, and in cube the u: so that as articulation is the essence of syllables, accent is the essence of words; which without it would be nothing more than a mere succession of syllables."

We have said, that it was the practice of the Greeks and Romans to elevate or depress their voice upon one syllable of each word. In this elevation or depression consisted their accent; but the English accent consists in the mere stress of the voice, without any change of note. "Among the Greeks, all syllables were pronounced either in a high, low, or middle note; or else in a union of the high and low by means of the intermediate. The middle note, which was exactly at an equal distance between the high and the low, was that in which the unaccented syllables were pronounced. But every word had one letter, if a monosyllable; or one syllable, if it consisted of more than one, distinguished from the rest; either by a note of the voice perceptibly higher than the middle note, which was called the acute accent; or by a note perceptibly, and in an equal proportion, lower than the middle one, which was called the grave accent; or by an union of the acute and grave on one syllable, which was done by the voice passing from the acute, through the middle note, in continuity down to the grave, which was called the circumflex."

"Now in pronouncing English words, it is true that one syllable is always distinguished from the rest; but it is not by any perceptible elevation or depression of the voice, any high or low note, that it is done, but merely by dwelling longer upon it, or by giving it a more forcible stroke. When the stress or accent is on the vowel, we dwell longer on that syllable than on the rest; as, in the words glory, father, holy. When it is on the consonant, the voice, passing rapidly over the vowel, gives a smarter stroke to the consonant, which distinguishes that syllable from others, as in the words battle, habits, barrow."

Having treated so largely of accent and quantity, the next thing to be considered in verse will be quickly discussed; for in English it depends wholly on the seat of the accent. "When the accent or stress is on the vowel, the syllable is necessarily long, because the accent cannot be made without dwelling on the vowel a longer time than usual. When it is on the consonant, the syllable is short; because the accent is made by passing rapidly over the vowel, and giving a smart stroke of the voice to the following consonants. Thus the words ad'd, led, bid, cut, are all short, the voice passing quickly over the vowel to the consonant; but for the contrary reason, the words all, laid, bide, cube, are long; the accent being on the vowels, on which the voice dwells some time before it takes in the sound of the consonant."

"Obvious as this point is, it has wholly escaped the observation of many an ingenious and learned writer. Lord Kames affirm*, that accenting is confined in * El. of English heroic verse to the long syllables; for a short Crit. vol. ii. syllable

* Art of Reading, vol. i.

syllable (says he) is not capable of an accent: and Dr Forster, who ought to have understood the nature of the English accent better than his Lordship, asks, whether we do not 'employ more time in uttering the first syllables of heavily, hastily, quickly, slowly; and the second in solicit, mistaking, researches, delusive, than in the others?' To this question Mr Sheridan replies * that "in some of these words we certainly do as the Doctor supposes; in hastily, slowly, mistaking, delusive, for instance; where the accent being on the vowels renders their sound long; but in all the others, heavily, quickly, solicit, researches, where the accent is on the consonant, the syllables heavy, quick, lit, ser, are pronounced as rapidly as possible, and the vowels are all short. In the Scotch pronunciation (continues he) they would indeed be all reduced to an equal quantity, as thus; hái-vily, hái-vily, quick-ly, slow-ly, so-lée-cit, re-sáir-ches, de-lú-sive. But here we see that the four short syllables are changed into four long ones of a different sound, occasioned by their placing the seat of the accent on the vowels instead of the consonants: thus instead of heavy they say hái-v; for quick, quék; for lit, léce; and for ser, sáir.

It appears therefore, that the quantity of English syllables is adjusted by one easy and simple rule; which is, that when the seat of the accent is on a vowel, the syllable is long; when on a consonant, short; and that all unaccented syllables are short. Without a due observation of quantity in reciting verses there will be no poetic numbers; yet in composing English verses the poet need not pay the least attention to the quantity of his syllables, as measure and movement will result from the observation of other laws, which are now to be explained.

It has been affirmed by a writer † of great authority among the critics, that in English heroic verse every line consists of ten syllables, five short and five long; from which there are but two exceptions, both of them rare. The first is, where each line of a couplet is made eleven syllables, by an additional short syllable at the end.

Thére héroes wit's are kept in pond'rous váses,
And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cafs.

The other exception, he says, concerns the second line of a couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexandrine line.

A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

After what has been just said, it is needless to stop for the purpose of pointing out the ingenious author's mistake respecting long and short syllables. Every attentive reader of what has been already laid down, must perceive, that in the first line of the former couplet, though there are no fewer than six accented syllables when it is properly read, yet of these there are but three that are long, viz. those which have the accent on the vowel. Our business at present is, to show the falsity of the rule which restrains the heroic line to ten syllables; and this we shall do by producing lines of a greater number.

This line, though it consists of eleven syllables, and has the last of those accented, or, as Lord Kames would say, long, is yet undoubtedly a heroic verse of very fine sound. Perhaps the advocates for the rule may contend, that the vowel o in echoing ought to be struck out by an apostrophe; but as no one reads,

And the shrill sounds ran ech'ing through the wood,
it is surely very absurd to omit in writing what cannot be omitted in utterance. The two following lines have each eleven syllables, of which not one can be suppressed in recitation.

Their glittering textures of the filmy dew,
The great hierarchal standard was to move.

Mr Sheridan quotes as a heroic line,

O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp;

and observes what a monstrous line it would appear, if pronounced,

O'er man' a frozen, man' a fiery Alp,

instead of that noble verse, which it certainly is, when all the thirteen syllables are distinctly uttered. He then produces a couplet, of which the former line has fourteen, and the latter twelve syllables.

And many an amorous, many a humorous lay,
Which many a bard had chaunted many a day.

That this is a couplet of very fine sound cannot be controverted; but we doubt whether the numbers of it or of the other quoted line of thirteen syllables be truly heroic. To our ears at least there appears a very perceptible difference between the movement of these verses and that of the verses of Pope or Dryden; and we think, that, though such couplets or single lines may, for the sake of variety or expression, be admitted into a heroic poem, yet a poem wholly composed of them would not be considered as heroic verse. It has a much greater resemblance to the verse of Spenser, which is now broke into two lines, of which the first has eight and the second six syllables. Nothing, however, seems to be more evident, from the other quoted instances, than that a heroic line is not confined to the syllables, and that it is not by the number of syllables that an English verse is to be measured.

But if a heroic verse in our tongue be not composed, as in French, of a certain number of syllables, how is it formed? We answer by feet, as was the hexameter line of the ancients; though between their feet and ours there is at the same time a great difference. The poetic feet of the Greeks and Romans are formed by quantity, those of the English by stress or accent. "Though these terms are in continual use, and in the mouths of all who treat of poetic numbers, very confused and erroneous ideas are sometimes annexed to them. Yet as the knowledge of the peculiar genius of our language with regard to poetic numbers and its characteristic difference from others in that respect, depends upon our having clear and precise notions of these terms, it will be necessary to have them fully explained. The general nature of them has been already sufficiently laid open,
and

Verifica-
tion. and we have now only to make some observations on their particular effects in the formation of metre.

"No scholar is ignorant that quantity is a term which relates to the length or the shortness of syllables, and that a long syllable is double the length of a short one. Now the plain meaning of this is, that a long syllable takes up double the time in sounding that a short one does; a fact of which the ear alone can be the judge. When a syllable in Latin ends with a consonant, and the subsequent syllable commences with one, every school-boy knows that the former is long, to use the technical term, by the law of position. This rule was in pronunciation strictly observed by the Romans, who always made such syllables long by dwelling on the vowels; whereas the very reverse is the case with us, because a quite contrary rule takes place in English words so constructed, as the accent or stress of the voice is in such cases always transferred to the consonant, and the preceding vowel being rapidly passed over, that syllable is of course short.

"The Romans had another rule of prosody, that when one syllable ending with a vowel, was followed by another beginning with a vowel, the former syllable was pronounced short; whereas in English there is generally an accent in that case on the former syllable, as in the word psour, which renders the syllable long. Pronouncing Latin therefore by our own rule, as in the former case, we make those syllables short which were sounded long by them; so in the latter we make those syllables long which with them were short. We say arma and virumque, instead of arma and virumque; scio and tut, instead of scio and tut.

"Having made these preliminary observations, we proceed now to explain the nature of poetic feet. Feet in verse correspond to bars in music: a certain number of syllables connected form a foot in the one, as a certain number of notes make a bar in the other. They are called feet, because it is by their aid that the voice as it were steps along through the verse in a measured pace; and it is necessary that the syllables which mark this regular movement of the voice should in some measure be distinguished from the others. This distinction, as we have already observed, was made among the ancient Romans, by dividing their syllables into long and short, and ascertaining their quantity by an exact proportion of time in sounding them; the long being to the short as two to one; and the long syllables, being thus the more important, marked the movement of the verse. In English, syllables are divided into accented and unaccented; and the accented syllables being as strongly distinguished from the unaccented, by the peculiar stress of the voice upon them, are as capable of marking the movement, and pointing out the regular

paces of the voice, as the long syllables were by their quantity among the Romans. Hence it follows, that our accented syllables corresponding to their long ones, and our unaccented to their short, in the structure of poetic feet, an accented syllable followed by one unaccented in the same foot will answer to their trochee; and preceded by an unaccented one, to their iambus; and so with the rest.

"All feet used in poetry consist either of two or three syllables; and the feet among the ancients were denominated from the number and quantity of their syllables. The measure of quantity was the short syllable, and the long one in time was equal to two short. A foot could not consist of less than two times, because it must contain at least two syllables; and by a law respecting numbers, which is explained elsewhere (see Music), a poetic foot would admit of no more than four of those times. Consequently the poetic feet were necessarily reduced to eight; four of two syllables, and four of three. Those of two syllables must either consist of two short, called a pyrrhic; two long, called a spondee; a long and a short, called a trochee; or a short and a long, called an iambus. Those of three syllables were, either three short, a tribrach; a long and two short, a dactyl; a short, long, and short, an amphibrach; or two short and a long, an anapaest (y).

We are now sufficiently prepared for considering what feet enter into the composition of an English heroic verse.

The Greeks and Romans made use of but two feet in the structure of their hexameters; and the English heroic may be wholly composed of one foot, viz. the iambic, which is therefore the foot most congenial to that species of verse. Our poetry indeed abounds with verses into which no other foot is admitted. Such as,

The pow'rs | gave ear | and grant'd half | his pray'r,
The rest | the winds | disper'd | in empty air.

Our heroic line, however, is not wholly refrained to the use of this foot. In the opinion of Mr Sheridan it admits all the eight before enumerated; and it certainly excludes none, unless perhaps the tribrach. It is known to every reader of English poetry, that some of the finest heroic verses in our language begin with a trochee; and that Pope, the smoothest of all our versifiers, was remarkable for his use of this foot, as is evident from the following example, where four succeeding lines out of six have a trochaic beginning.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as | her eyes | and as unfix'd as those;
Favours | to none | to all she smiles extends,
O'ft she | rejects | but never once offends.
Bright as | the sun | her eyes the gazers strike,
And like the sun she shines on all alike.

The

(y) For the convenience of the less learned reader we shall here subjoin a scheme of poetic feet, using the marks (- o) in use among the Latin grammarians to denote the genuine feet by quantity, and the following marks (' o) to denote the English feet by accents, which answer to those.

The use of this foot, however, is not necessarily confined to the beginning of a line. Milton frequently introduces it into other parts of the verse; of which take the following instances:

That all | was lost | back' to | the thick'et flunk—
Of E've | whole ey'e | d'arted cont'agious fire.

The last line of the following couplet begins with a pyrrhic:

She said, | and mélt'ing as in tears she lay,
In a | soft sil'ver stream dissolv'd away.

But this foot is introduced likewise with very good effect into other parts of the verse, as

Pánt on | thy lip' | and tō | thy héart | be prest.
The phantom flies me | as unkind as you.
Leaps o'er the fence with ease | intō | the fold.

And the | shrill' sounds | ran echoing through the wood.

In this last line we see that the first foot is a pyrrhic, and the second a spondee; but in the next the two first feet are spondees.

Hill's pép | o'er hill's | and Alps | on Alps | arise.

In the following verse a trochee is succeeded by two spondees, of which the former is a genuine spondee by quantity, and the latter equivalent to a spondee by accent.

Sée the | bold yōuth | stráin up' | the threat'ning steep.

We shall now give some instances of lines containing both the pyrrhic and the spondee, and then proceed to the consideration of the other four feet.

Thát ōn | wéak wings | from far pursues your flight.
Thró' the | fair scéne | roll flow | the ling'ring streams.

On hēr | white breast' | a sparkling cross she wore.

Of the four trisyllabic feet, the first, of which we shall give instances in heroic lines, is the dactyl; as

Mur'muring, | and with | him'led the shades | of night.
Hov'ering | on wing | un'der | the chépe | of hell.
Tim'orous | and slothful yet he pleas'd the ear.
Of trúth | in word | mightier | than they | in arms.

Of the anapaest a single instance shall suffice; for except by Milton it is not often used.

The great | hieár'chal standard was to move.

The amphibrach is employed in the four following verses, and in the three last with a very fine effect.

With wheels | yet hóver'ing o'er the ocean brim.
Rous'd from their slumber on | thát síe'ry | couch.
While the | prōmis'c'ous crowd stood yet aloof.

Throws his steep flight | in mány | in airy whirl.

Having thus sufficiently proved that the English heroic verse admits of all the feet except the tribrach, it may be proper to add, that from the nature of our accent we have duplicates of these feet, viz. such as are formed by quantity, and such as are formed by the mere itus of the voice; an opulence peculiar to our tongue, and which may be the source of a boundless variety. But as feet formed of syllables which have the accent or itus on the consonant are necessarily pronounced in less time than similar feet formed by quantity, it may be objected, that the

measure of a whole line, constructed in the former manner, must be shorter than that of another line constructed in the latter; and that the intermixture of verses of such different measures in the same poem must have a bad effect on the melody, as being destructive of proportion. This objection would be well-founded, were not the time of the short accented syllables compensated by a small pause at the end of each word to which they belong, as is evident in the following verse:

Then rus'tling crack'ling crash'ing thun'der down.

This line is formed of iambs by accent upon consonants, except the last syllable; and yet by means of these short pauses or rests, the measure of the whole is equal to that of the following, which consists of pure iambs by quantity.

O'er héaps | of rōsin stálk'd | the stately hind.

Movement, of so much importance in versification, regards the order of syllables in a foot, measure their quantity. The order of syllables respects their progress from short to long or from long to short, as in the Greek and Latin languages; or from strong to weak or weak to strong, i. e. from accented or unaccented syllables, as in our tongue. It has been already observed, that an English heroic verse may be composed wholly of iambs; and experience shows that such verses have a fine melody. But as the stress of the voice in repeating verses of pure iambs, is regularly on every second syllable, such uniformity would disgust the ear in any long succession, and therefore such changes were sought for as might introduce the pleasure of variety without prejudice to melody; or which might even contribute to its improvement. Of this nature was the introduction of the trochee to form the first foot of an heroic verse, which experience has shown us is so far from spoiling the melody, that in many cases it heightens it. This foot, however, cannot well be admitted into any other part of the verse without prejudice to the melody, because it interrupts and stops the usual movement by another directly opposite. But though it be excluded with regard to pure melody, it may often be admitted into any part of the verse with advantage to expression, as is well known to the readers of Milton.

"The next change admitted for the sake of variety, without prejudice to melody, is the intermixture of pyrrhics and spondees; in which two impressions in the one foot make up for the want of one in the other; and two long syllables compensate two short, so as to make the sum of the quantity of the two feet equal to two iambs. That this may be done without prejudice to the melody, take the following instances:

On hēr | white bréad' | a sparkling cross she wore.—
Nór the | déep tráct' | of hell—say first what causé.—

This intermixture may be employed ad libitum, in any part of the line; and sometimes two spondees may be placed together in one part of the verse, to be compensated by two pyrrhics in another; of which Mr Sheridan quotes the following lines as instances:

Stōod rúld' | stōod váit' | inf'insúde | confinéd.
She all | night lōag | hēr ámōrous déscant fung.

That the former is a proper example, will not perhaps be questioned; but the third foot in the latter is certain-

Verfification. ly no pyrrhic. As it is marked here and by him, it is a tribrach; but we appeal to our English readers, if it ought not to have been marked an amphibrach by accent, and if the fourth foot be not an iambus. To us the feet of the line appear to be as follow:

She ill | night long | hé am'ō|rōus des'cánt fun'g.

It is indeed a better example of the proper use of the amphibrach than any which he has given, unless perhaps the two following lines.

Up to | the fiery con'scave tow'ering high
Throws his | steep flight | in man'y | an air'y whirl.

That in these three lines the introduction of the amphibrach does not hurt the melody, will be acknowledged by every person who has an ear; and those who have not, are not qualified to judge. But we appeal to every man of taste, if the two amphibrachs succeeding each other in the last line do not add much to the expression of the verse. If this be questioned, we have only to change the movement to the common iambic, and we shall discover how feeble the line will become.

Throws his | steep flight | in man'y air'y whirls.

This is simple description, instead of that magical power of numbers which to the imagination produces the object itself, whirling as it were round an axis.

Having thus shown that the iambus, spondee, pyrrhic, and amphibrach, by accent, may be used in our measure with great latitude; and that the trochee may at all times begin the line, and in some cases with advantage to the melody; it now remains only to add, that the dactyl, having the same movement, may be introduced in the place of the trochee; and the anapaest in the place of the iambus. In proof of this, were not the article swelling in our hands, we could adduce many instances which would show what an inexhaustible fund of riches, and what an immense variety of materials, are prepared for us, "to build the lofty rhyme." But we hasten to the next thing to be considered in the art of versifying, which is known by the name of pauses.

"Of the poetic pauses there are two sorts, the cesural and the final. The cesural divides the verse into equal or unequal parts; the final closes it. In a verse there may be two or more cesural pauses, but it is evident that there can be but one final. As the final pause concerns the reader more than the writer of verses, it has been seldom treated of by the critics. Yet as it is this final pause which in many cases distinguishes verse from prose, it cannot be improper in the present article to show how it ought to be made. Were it indeed a law of our versification, that every line should terminate with a stop in the sense, the boundaries of the measure would be fixed, and the nature of the final pause could not be mistaken. But nothing has puzzled the bulk of readers, or divided their opinions, more than the manner in which those verses ought to be recited, where the sense does not close with the line; and whose last words have a necessary connection with those that begin the subsequent verse. "Somo (says Mr Sheridan) who see the necessity of pointing out the metre, pronounce the last word of each line in such a note as usually accompanies a comma, in marking the smallest member of a sentence. Now this is certainly improper, because it makes that appear to be a complete member of a sen-

tence which is an incomplete one; and by disjoining the sense as well as the words, often confounds the meaning. Others again, but these fewer in number, and of the more absurd kind, drop their voice at the end of every line, in the same note which they use in marking a full stop; to the utter annihilation of the sense. Some readers (continues our author) of a more enthusiastic kind, elevate their voices at the end of all verses to a higher note than is ever used in the stops which divide the meaning. But such a continued repetition of the same high note becomes disgusting by its monotony, and gives an air of chanting to such recitation. To avoid these several faults, the bulk of readers have chosen what they think a safer course, which is that of running the lines one into another without the least pause, where they find none in the sense; but by this mode of recitation they reduce poetry to something worse than prose, to verse run mad.

But it may be asked, if this final pause must be marked neither by an elevation nor by a depression of the voice, how is it to be marked at all? To which Mr Sheridan replies, by making no change whatever in the voice before it. This will sufficiently distinguish it from the other pauses, the comma, semicolon, &c. because some change of note, by raising or depressing the voice, always precedes them, whilst the voice is here only suspended.

Now this pause of suspension is the very thing wanting to preserve the melody at all times, without interfering with the sense. For it perfectly marks the bound of the metre: and being made only by a suspension, not by a change of note in the voice, it never can affect the sense; because the sentential stops, or those which affect the sense, being all made with a change of note, where there is no such change the sense cannot be affected. Nor is this the only advantage gained to numbers by this stop of suspension. It also prevents the monotony at the end of lines; which, however pleasing to a rude, is disgusting to a delicate ear. For as this stop has no peculiar note of its own, but always takes that which belongs to the preceding word, it changes continually with the matter, and is as various as the sense.

Having said all that is necessary with regard to the final, we proceed now to consider the cesural pause. To these two pauses it will be proper to give the denomination of musical, to distinguish them from the comma, semicolon, colon, and full stop, which may be called sentential pauses; the office of the former being to mark the melody, as that of the latter is to point out the sense. The cesural, like the final pause, sometimes coincides with the sentential; and sometimes takes place where there is no stop in the sense. In this last case, it is exactly of the same nature, and governed by the same laws with the pause of suspension, which we have just described.

The cesural, though not essential, is however a great ornament to verse, as it improves and diversifies the melody, by a judicious management in varying its situation; but it discharges a still more important office than this. Were there no cesural, verse could aspire to no higher ornament than that of simple melody; but by means of this pause there is a new source of delight opened in poetic numbers, correspondent in some sort to harmony in music. This takes its rise from that act of the mind which compares the relative proportions that

that the members of a verse thus divided bear to each other, as well as to those in the adjoining lines. In order to see this matter in a clear light, let us examine what effect the censure produces in single lines, and afterwards in comparing contiguous lines with each other.

With regard to the place of the censure, Mr Pope and others have expressly declared, that no line appeared musical to their ears, where the censure was not after the fourth, fifth, or sixth syllable of the verse. Some have enlarged its empire to the third and seventh syllables; whilst others have asserted that it may be admitted into any part of the line.

"There needs but a little distinguishing (says Mr Sheridan), to reconcile these different opinions. If melody alone is to be considered, Mr Pope is in the right when he fixes its seat in or as near as may be to the middle of the verse. To form lines of the first melody, the censure must either be at the end of the second or of the third foot, or in the middle of the third between the two. Of this movement take the following examples:

1. Of the censure at the end of the second foot.

Our plenteous streams || a various race supply;
The bright-ey'd perch || with fins of Tyrian dye;
The silver celt || in shining volumes roll'd;
The yellow carp || in scales bedrop'd with gold.

2. At the end of the third foot.

With tender billet-doux || he lights the pyre,
And breathes three amorous sighs || to raise the fire.

3. Between the two, dividing the third foot.

The fields are ravish'd || from the industrious swains,
From men their cities, || and from gods their fanes.

These lines are certainly all of a fine melody, yet they are not quite upon an equality in that respect. Those which have the censure in the middle are of the first order; those which have it at the end of the second foot are next; and those which have the pause at the end of the third foot the last. The reason of this preference it may not perhaps be difficult to assign.

In the pleasure arising from comparing the proportion which the parts of a whole bear to each other, the more easily and distinctly the mind perceives that proportion, the greater is the pleasure. Now there is nothing which the mind more instantaneously and clearly discerns, than the division of a whole into two equal parts, which alone would give a superiority to lines of the first order over those of the other two. But this is not the only claim to superiority which such lines possess. The censure being in them always on an unaccented, and the final pause on an accented syllable, they have a mixture of variety and equality of which neither of the other orders can boast, as in these orders the censual and final pauses are both on accented syllables.

In the division of the other two species, if we respect quantity only, the proportion is exactly the same, the one being as two to three, and the other as three to two; but it is the order or movement which here makes the difference. In lines where the censure bounds the second foot, the smaller portion of the verse is first in order, the greater last; and this order is reversed in lines which have the censure at the end of the third foot. Now, as

the latter part of the verse leaves the strongest and most lasting impression on the ear, where the larger portion belongs to the latter part of the line, the impression must in proportion be greater; the effect in sound being the same as that produced by a climax in sense, where one part rises above another.

Having shown in what manner the censure improves and diversifies the melody of verse, we shall now treat of its more important office, by which it is the chief source of harmony in numbers. But, first, it will be necessary to explain what we mean by the term harmony, as applied to verse.

Melody in music regards only the effects produced by successive sounds; and harmony, strictly speaking, the effects produced by different co-existing sounds, which are found to be in concord. Harmony, therefore, in this sense of the word, can never be applied to poetic numbers, of which there can be only one reciter, and consequently the sounds can only be in succession. When therefore we speak of the harmony of verse, we mean nothing more than an effect produced by an action of the mind in comparing the different members of verse already constructed according to the laws of melody with each other, and perceiving a due and beautiful proportion between them.

The first and lowest perception of this kind of harmony arises from comparing two members of the same line with each other, divided in the manner to be seen in the three instances already given; because the beauty of proportion in the members, according to each of these divisions, is founded in nature. But there is a perception of harmony in versification, which arises from the comparison of two lines, and observing the relative proportion of their members; whether they correspond exactly to each other by similar divisions, as in the couplets already quoted; or whether they are diversified by censures in different places. As,

See the bold youth || strain up the threatening steep,
Ruth thro' the thickets || down the valleys sweep.

Where we find the censure at the end of the second foot of the first line, and in the middle of the third foot of the last.

Hang o'er their couriers heads || with eager speed,
And earth rolls back || beneath the flying steed.

Here the censure is at the end of the third foot in the former, and of the second in the latter line. The perception of this species of harmony is far superior to the former; because, to the pleasure of comparing the members of the same line with each other, there is superadded that of comparing the different members of the different lines with each other; and the harmony is enriched by having four members of comparison instead of two. The pleasure is still increased in comparing a greater number of lines, and observing the relative proportion of the couplets to each other in point of similarity and diversity. As thus,

Thy forests, Windsor, || and thy green retreats,
At once the monarch's || and the muse's seats,
Invite my lays. || Be present sylvan maids,
Unlock your springs || and open all your shades.

Here we find that the censure is in the middle of the verse in each line of the first couplet, and at the end of the

Verifica-
tion. the second foot in each line of the last; which gives a similarity in each couplet distinctly considered, and a diversity when the one is compared with the other, that has a very pleasing effect. Nor is the pleasure less where we find a diversity in the lines of each couplet, and a similarity in comparing the couplets themselves. As in these,

Not half so swift || the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle || cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly || the fierce eagle moves,
When thro' the clouds || he drives the trembling doves.

There is another mode of dividing lines well suited to the nature of the couplet, by introducing semipauses, which with the censure divide the line into four portions. By a semipause, we mean a small rest of the voice, during a portion of time equal to half of that taken up by the censure; as will be perceived in the following fine couplet:

Warms | in the sun || refreshes | in the breeze,
Glow | in the stars || and blossoms | in the trees.

That the harmony, and of course the pleasure, resulting from poetic numbers, is increased as well by the semipause as by the censure, is obvious to every ear; because lines so constructed furnish a greater number of members for comparison: but it is of more importance to observe, that by means of the semipauses, lines which, separately considered, are not of the finest harmony, may yet produce it when opposed to each other, and compared in the couplet. Of the truth of this observation, the following couplet, especially as it succeeds that immediately quoted, is a striking proof:

Lives | thro' all life || extends | thro' all extent,
Spreads | undivided || operates | unspent.

What we have advanced upon this species of verse, will contribute to solve a poetical problem thrown out by Dryden as a crux to his brethren: it was to account for the peculiar beauty of that celebrated couplet in Sir

John Denham's Cooper's Hill, where he thus describes the Thames:

Tho' deep | yet clear || tho' gentle | yet not dull.
Strong | without rage || without o'erflowing | full.

This description has great merit independent of the harmony of the numbers; but the chief beauty of the verification lies in the happy disposition of the pauses and semipauses, so as to make a fine harmony in each line when its portions are compared, and in the couplet when one line is compared with the other.

Having now said all that is necessary upon pauses and semipauses, we have done the utmost justice to our subject which the limits assigned us will permit. Feet and pauses are the constituent parts of verse; and the proper adjustment of them depends upon the poet's knowledge of numbers, accent, quantity, and movement, all of which we have endeavoured briefly to explain. In conformity to the practice of some critics, we might have treated separately of rhyme and of blank verse; but as the essentials of all heroic verses are the same, such a division of our subject would have thrown no light upon the art of English verification. It may be just worth while to observe, that the pause at the end of a couplet ought to coincide, if possible, with a slight pause in the sense, and that there is no necessity for this coincidence of pauses at the end of any particular blank verse. We might likewise compare our heroic line with the ancient hexameter, and endeavour to appreciate their respective merits; but there is not a reader capable of attending to such a comparison who will not judge for himself; and it may perhaps be questioned, whether there be two who will form precisely the same judgement. Mr Sheridan, and all the mere English critics, give a high degree of preference to our heroic, on account of the vast variety of feet which it admits: whilst the readers of Greek and Latin poetry prefer the hexameter, on account of its more musical notes and majestic length.

POGGE, the MAILED or ARMED GURNARD, or COTTUS CATAPHRACTUS. See COTTUS, ICHTHYOLOGY, p. 89.

POGGIUS BRACCIOLINUS, a man of great parts and learning, who contributed much to the revival of knowledge in Europe, was born at Terranuova, in the territories of Florence, in 1380. His first public employment was that of writer of the apostolic letters, which he held 10 years, and was then made apostolic secretary, in which capacity he officiated 40 years, under seven popes. In 1453, when he was 72 years of age, he accepted the employment of secretary to the republic of Florence, to which place he removed, and died in 1459. He visited several countries, and searched many monasteries, to recover ancient authors, numbers of which he brought to light: his own works consist of moral pieces, orations, letters, and A History of Florence from 1350 to 1455, which is the most considerable of them.

POGGY ISLANDS, otherwise called Nassau islands, VOL. XVII. Part I.

form part of a chain of islands which stretch along the whole length of Sumatra, in the East Indies, and lie at the distance of twenty or thirty leagues from the west coast of that island.

The northern extremity of the northern Poggy lies in latitude 2° 18' S. and the southern extremity of the southern island in latitude 3° 16' S. The two are separated from each other by a very narrow passage called the strait of See Cockup, in latitude 2° 40' S. and longitude about 100° 38' east from Greenwich.—The number of inhabitants in these islands amounts to no more than 1400. Mr Crisp, who staid about a month among them, carefully collected many particulars respecting their language, customs, and manners. He advert to one circumstance relative to this people, which may be considered as a curious fact in history:

"From the proximity of the islands (says he), to Sumatra, which, in respect to them, may be considered as a continent, we should naturally expect to find their inhabitants to be a set of people originally derived from