Of Poetical Situation; one is rash, another cautious; one is impetuous and headstrong, another impetuous, but tractable; one is cruel, another merciful; one is insolent and oftentimes, another gentle and unassuming; one is vain of his person, another of his strength, and a third of his family.—It would be tedious to give a complete enumeration. Almost every species of the heroic character is to be found in Homer.

The Paradise Lost, though truly Epic, cannot properly be called an heroic poem; for the agents in it are not heroes, but beings of a higher order (1). Of these the poet's plan did not admit the introduction of many; but most of those whom he has introduced, are well characterized. We have already spoken of his Satan, which is the highest imaginable species of the diabolical character. The inferior species are well diversified, and in each variety distinctly marked: one is slothful, another avaricious, a third sophistical, a fourth furious; and though all are impious, some are more outrageously and blasphemously so than others.

Adam and Eve, in the state of innocence, are characters well imagined, and well supported; and the different sentiments arising from difference of sex, are traced out with inimitable delicacy, and philosophical propriety. After the fall, he makes them retain the same characters, without any other change than what the transition from innocence to guilt may be supposed to produce: Adam has still that pre-eminence in dignity, and Eve in loveliness, which we should naturally look for in the father and mother of mankind.—Of the blest spirits, Raphael and Michael are well distinguished; the one for affability, and peculiar goodwill to the human race; the other for majesty, but such as commands veneration rather than fear.

We are sorry to add, that Milton's attempt to soar still higher, only shows, that he had already soared as high, as, without being "blasted with excess of light," it is possible for the human imagination to rise.

From what has been said, it seems abundantly evident,—That the end of poetry is to please; and therefore that the most perfect poetry must be the most pleasing;—that what is unnatural cannot give pleasure; and therefore that poetry must be according to nature;—that it must be either according to real nature, or according to nature somewhat different from the reality;—that, if according to real nature, it would give no greater pleasure than history, which is a transcript of real nature;—that greater pleasure is, however, to be expected from it, because we grant it superior indulgence, in regard to fiction, and the choice of words;—and, consequently, that poetry must be, not according to real nature, but according to nature improved to that degree which is consistent with probability and suitable to the poet's purpose.—And hence it is that we call poetry, An imitation of nature.

For that which is properly termed imitation has always in it something which is not in the original. If the prototype and transcript be exactly alike; if there be nothing in the one which is not in the other; we may call the latter a representation, a copy, a draught, or a picture, of the former; but we never call it an Of Poetical imitation.

Sect. V. Of Arrangement, Unity, Digressions.

—Further remarks on Nature in Poetry.

13. I. The origin of nations, and the beginnings of great events, are little known, and seldom interesting; whence the first part of every history, compared with the sequel, is somewhat dry and tedious. But a poet must, even in the beginning of his work, interest the readers, and raise high expectation; not by any affected pomp of style, far less by ample promises or bold professions; but by setting immediately before them some incident, striking enough to raise curiosity, in regard both to its causes and to its consequences. He must therefore take up his story, not at the beginning, but in the middle; or rather, to prevent the work from being too long, as near the end as possible; and afterwards take some proper opportunity to inform us of the preceding events, in the way of narrative, or by conversation of the persons introduced, or by short and natural digressions.

The action of both the Iliad and Odyssey begins about six weeks before its conclusion; although the principal events of the war of Troy are to be found in the former; and the adventures of ten years voyage, followed by the suppression of a dangerous domestic enemy, in the latter. One of the first things mentioned by Homer in the Iliad, is a plague, which Apollo in anger sent into the Grecian army commanded by Agamemnon and now encamped before Troy. Who this Agamemnon was, and who the Grecians were; for what reason they had come hither; how long the siege had lasted; what memorable actions had been already performed, and in what condition both parties now were:—all this, and much more, we soon learn from occasional hints and conversations interspersed through the poem.

In the Iliad, which, though it comprehends the transactions of seven years, opens within a few months of the concluding event, we are first presented with a view of the Trojan fleet at sea, and no less a person than Juno interfering herself to raise a storm for their destruction. This excites a curiosity to know something further: who these Trojans were; whence they had come, and whither they were bound; why they had left their own country, and what had befallen them since they left it. On all these points, the poet, without quitting the track of his narrative, soon gives the fullest information: The storm rises; the Trojans are driven to Africa, and hospitably received by the queen of the country; at whose desire their commander relates his adventures.

The action of Paradise Lost commences not many days before Adam and Eve are expelled from the garden of Eden, which is the concluding event. This poem, as its plan is incomparably more sublime and more important than that of either the Iliad or Iliad, opens with a far more interesting scene: a multitude of angels and archangels shut up in a region of torment and darkness, and rolling on a lake of unquenchable

(1) Samson, in the Agonistes, is a species of the heroic character not to be found in Homer; distinctly marked, and admirably supported. And Delilah, in the same tragedy, is perhaps a more perfect model of an alluring, intriguing, worthless woman, than another to be met with in ancient or modern poetry. Of Poetical able fire. Who these angels are, and what brought them into this miserable condition, we naturally wish to know; and the poet in due time informs us; partly from the conversation of the fiends themselves; and more particularly by the mouth of a happy spirit, sent from heaven to caution the father and mother of mankind against temptation, and confirm their good resolutions by unfolding the dreadful effects of impiety and disobedience.

This poetical arrangement of events, so different from the historical, has other advantages besides those arising from brevity, and compactness of detail: it is obviously more affecting to the fancy, and more alarming to the passions; and, being more suitable to the order and the manner in which the actions of other men strikes our senses, is a more exact imitation of human affairs. I hear a sudden noise in the street, and run to see what is the matter. An insurrection has happened, a great multitude is brought together, and something very important is going forward. The scene before me is the first thing that engages my attention; and is in itself so interesting, that for a moment or two I look at it in silence and wonder. By and by, when I get time for reflection, I begin to inquire into the cause of all this tumult, and what it is the people would be at; and one who is better informed than I, explains the affair from the beginning; or perhaps I make this out for myself, from the words and actions of the persons principally concerned.—This is a sort of picture of poetical arrangement, both in epic and dramatic composition; and this plan has been followed in narrative odes and ballads both ancient and modern.—The historian pursues a different method. He begins perhaps with an account of the manners of a certain age, and of the political constitution of a certain country; then introduces a particular person, gives the story of his birth, connections, private character, pursuits, disappointments, and of the events that promoted his views, and brought him acquainted with other turbulent spirits like himself; and so proceeds, unfolding, according to the order of time, the causes, principles, and progress of the conspiracy;—if that be the subject which he undertakes to illustrate. It cannot be denied, that this latter method is more favourable to calm information: but the former, compared with it, will be found to have all the advantages already specified, and to be more effectually productive of that mental pleasure which depends on the passions and imagination.

13. II. If a work have no determinate end, it has no meaning; and if it have many ends, it will distract by its multiplicity. Unity of design, therefore, belongs in some measure to all compositions, whether in verse or prose. But to some it is more essential than to others; and to none so much as to the higher poetry. In certain kinds of history, there is unity sufficient, if all the events recorded be referred to one person; in others, if to one period of time, or to one people, or even to the inhabitants of one and the same planet. But it is not enough, that the subject of a poetical fable be the exploits of one person; for these may be of various and even of opposite sorts and tendencies, and take up longer time than the nature of poetry can admit:—far less can a regular poem comprehend the affairs of one period, or of one people:—it must be limited to one great action or event, to the illustration of which all the subordinate events must contribute; and these must be so connected with one another, as well as with the poet’s general purpose, that one cannot be changed, transposed, or taken away, without affecting the confidence and stability of the whole.† Arift. In itself an incident may be interesting, a character well drawn, a description beautiful; and yet, if it disfigure the general plan, or if it obstruct or incumber the main action, instead of helping it forward, a correct artist would consider it but as a gaudy superfluity or splendid deformity; like a piece of fleecy cloth sewed upon an garment of a different colour *. Not that all the parts of the fable either are, or can be, equally essential. Many descriptions and thoughts, of little consequence to the plan, may be admitted for the sake of variety; and the poet may, as well as the historian and philosopher, drop his subject for a time, in order to take up an affecting or instructive digression.

14. III. The doctrine of poetical digressions and episodes has been largely treated by the critics. We shall here only remark, that, in estimating their propriety, three things are to be attended to:—their connection with the fable or subject;—their own peculiar excellence;—and their subltnency to the poet’s design.

(1.) Those digressions, that both arise from and terminate in the subject; like the episode of the angel Raphael in Paradise Lost, and the transition to the death of Cæsar and the civil wars in the first book of the Georgics; are the most artful, and, if suitably executed, claim the highest praise:—those that arise from, but do not terminate in, the subject, are perhaps second in the order of merit; like the story of Dido in the Eneid, and the encomium on a country-life in the second book of the Georgics:—those come next, that terminate in, but do not rise from, the fable; of which there are several in the third book of the Eneid, and in the Odyssey:—and those, that neither terminate in the fable, nor rise from it, are the least artful; and if they be long, cannot escape censure, unless their beauty be very great.

But (2.) we are willing to excuse a beautiful episode, at whatever expense to the subject it may be introduced. They who can blame Virgil for obtruding upon them the charming tale of Orpheus and Euridyce in the fourth Georgic, or Milton for the apostrophe to light in the beginning of his third book, ought to forfeit all title to the perusal of good poetry; for of such divine strains one would rather be the author, than of all the books of criticism in the world. Yet still it is better, that an episode possess the beauty of connection, together with its own intrinsic elegance, than this without the other.

Moreover, in judging of the propriety of episodes, and other similar contrivances, it may be expedient to attend; (3.) to the design of the poet, as distinguished from the fable or subject of the poem. The great design, for example, of Virgil, was to interest his countrymen in a poem written with a view to reconcile them to the person and government of Augustus. Whatever, therefore, in the poem tends to promote this design, even though it should, in some degree, hurt the contexture of the fable, is really a proof of the poet’s judgment; and may be not only allowed, but applauded.—The progress of the action of the Eneid may seem Of Poetical seem to be too long obstructed in one place, by the story of Dido, which, though it rises from the preceding part of the poem, has no influence upon the sequel; and, in another, by the episode of Cacus, which, without injury to the fable, might have been omitted altogether. Yet these episodes, interesting as they are to us and all mankind, because of the transcendent merit of the poetry, must have been still more interesting to the Romans, because of their connection with the Roman affairs: for the one accounts poetically for their wars with Carthage; and the other not only explains some of their religious ceremonies, but also gives a most charming rural picture of those hills and valleys in the neighbourhood of the Tiber, on which, in after times, their majestic city was fated to stand.—And if we consider, that the design of Homer's Iliad was, not only to show the fatal effects of diffusion among confederates, but also to immortalise his country, and celebrate the most distinguished families in it, we shall be inclined to think more favourably than critics generally do, of some of his long speeches and digressions; which, though to us they may seem trivial, must have been very interesting to his countrymen, on account of the genealogies and private history recorded in them.—Shakespeare's historical plays, considered as dramatic fables, and tried by the laws of tragedy and comedy, appear very rude compositions. But if we attend to the poet's design, (as the elegant critic† has with equal truth and beauty explained it), we shall be forced to admire his judgment in the general conduct of those pieces, as well as unequalled success in the execution of particular parts.

There is yet another point of view in which these digressions may be considered. If they tend to elucidate any important character, or to introduce any interesting event not otherwise within the compass of the poem, or to give an amiable display of any particular virtue, they may be intitled, not to our pardon only, but even to our admiration, however loofly they may hang upon the fable. All these three ends are effected by that most beautiful episode of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of the Iliad; and the two last, by the no less beautiful one of Euryalus and Ni-sus, in the ninth of the Eneid.

15. IV. And now, from the position formerly established, that the end of this divine art is to give pleasure, it has been endeavoured to prove, that, whether in displaying the appearances of the material universe, or in imitating the workings of the human mind, and the varieties of human character, or in arranging and combining into one whole the several incidents and parts whereof this fable consists,—the aim of the poet must be, to copy nature, not as it is, but in that state of perfection in which, consistently with the particular genius of the work, and the laws of verisimilitude, it may be supposed to be.

Such, in general, is the nature of that poetry which is intended to raise admiration, pity, and other serious emotions. But in this art, as in all others, there are different degrees of excellence; and we have hitherto directed our view chiefly to the highest. All serious poets are not equally solicitous to improve nature. Euripides is said to have represented men as they were; Sophocles, more poetically, as they should or might be*. Theocritus in his Idyls, and Spenser in his Shepherd's Calendar, give us language and sentiments more nearly approaching those of the Rur verum et barbare†, than what we meet with in the Pastorals of Virgil and Pope. In the historical drama, human characters and events must be according to historical truth,‡ Martial, or at least not to remote from it as to lead into any important misapprehension of fact. And in the historical epic poem, such as the Pharalia of Lucan, and the Campaign of Addison, the historical arrangement is preferred to the poetical, as being nearer the truth. Yet nature is a little improved even in these poems. The persons in Shakespeare's historical plays, and the heroes of the Pharalia, talk in verse, and suitably to their characters, and with a readiness, beauty, and harmony of expression, not to be met with in real life, nor even in history: speeches are invented, and, to heighten the description, circumstances added, with great latitude: real events are rendered more compact and more strictly dependent upon one another; and fictitious ones brought in, to elucidate human characters, and diversify the narration.

The more poetry improves nature, by copying after general ideas collected from extensive observation, the more it partakes (according to Aristotle) of the nature of philosophy; the greater stretch of fancy and of observation it requires in the artist, and the better chance it has to be universally agreeable.

Yet poetry, when it falls short of this perfection, may have great merit as an instrument of both instruction and pleasure. To most men, simple unadorned nature is, at certain times, and in certain compositions, more agreeable than the most elaborate improvements of art; as a plain short period, without modulation, gives a pleasing variety to a discourse. Many such portraits of simple nature there are in the subordinate parts both of Homer's and of Virgil's poetry: and an excellent effect they have in giving probability to the fiction, as well as in gratifying the reader's fancy with images distinct and lively, and easily comprehended. The historical plays of Shakespeare raise not our pity and terror to such a height, as Lear, Macbeth, or Othello; but they interest and instruct us greatly notwithstanding. The rudest of the eclogues of Theocritus, or even of Spenser, have by some authors been extolled above those of Virgil, because more like real life. Nay, Corneille is known to have preferred the Pharalia to the Eneid, perhaps from its being nearer the truth, or perhaps from the sublime sentiments of Stoic morality so forcibly and so ostentatiously displayed in it.

Poets may refine upon nature too much as well as too little; for affectation and rusticity are equally remote from true elegance. The style and sentiments of comedy should no doubt be more correct and more pointed than those of the most polite conversation: but to make every footman a wit, and every gentleman and lady an epigrammatist, as Congreve has done, is an excessive and faulty refinement. The proper medium has been hit by Menander and Terence, by Shakespeare in his happier scenes, and by Garrick, Cumberland, and some others of late renown. To describe the passion of love with as little delicacy as some men speak of it, would be unpardonable; but to transform it into mere Platonic adoration, is to run into another extreme, less criminal indeed, but too remote. Of Poetical mote from universal truth to be universally interesting.

Language. To the former extreme Ovid inclines; and Petrarch, and his imitators, to the latter. Virgil has happily avoided both: but Milton has painted this passion, as distinct from all others, with such peculiar truth and beauty, that we cannot think Voltaire's encomium too high, when he says, that love in all other poetry seems a weakness, but in Paradise Lost a virtue. There are many good strokes of nature in Ramay's Gentle Shepherd; but the author's passion for the rus venarum betrays him into some indelicacies: a censure that falls with greater weight upon Theocritus, who is often absolutely indecent. The Italian pastoral of Tasso and Guarini, and the French of Fontenelle, run into the opposite extreme, (though in some parts beautifully simple), and display a system of rural manners so quaint and affected as to outrage all probability. In fine, though mediocrity of execution in poetry be allowed to deserve the doom pronounced upon it by Horace; yet is it true, notwithstanding, that in this art, as in many other good things, the point of excellence lies in a middle between two extremes; and has been reached by those only who sought to improve nature as far as the genius of their work would permit, keeping at an equal distance from rusticity on the one hand, and affected elegance on the other.

Sect. VI. Of Poetical Language.

16. Words in poetry are chosen, first, for their sense; and, secondly, for their sound. That the first of these grounds of choice is the more excellent, nobody can deny. He who in literary matters prefers sound to sense, is a fool. Yet sound is to be attended to, even in prose; and in verse demands particular attention. We shall consider poetical language, first, as significant; and, secondly, as susceptible of harmony.

§ I. Of Poetical Language, considered as significant.

17. If, as it has been endeavoured to prove, poetry be imitative of nature, poetical fictions of real events, poetical images of real appearances in the visible creation, and poetical personages of real human characters; it would seem to follow, that the language of poetry must be an imitation of the language of nature.

According to Dr Beattie†, that language is natural, when it is suited to the speaker's condition, character, and circumstances. And as, for the most part, the images and sentiments of serious poetry are copied from the images and sentiments, not of real, but of improved, nature; so the language of serious poetry must (as hinted already) be a transcript, not of the real language of nature, which is often dissonant and rude, but of natural language improved as far as may be consistent with probability, and with the supposed character of the speaker. If this be not the case, if the language of poetry be such only as we hear in conversation, or read in history, it will, instead of delight, bring disappointment; because it will fall short of what we expect from an art which is recommended rather by its pleasurable qualities, than by its intrinsic utility; and to which, in order to render it pleasing, we grant higher privileges, than to any other kind of literary composition, or any other mode of human language.

The next inquiry must therefore be, "What are those improvements that peculiarly belong to the language of poetry?" And these may be comprehended under two heads; poetical words, and tropes and figures.

Art. I. Of Poetical Words.

18. One mode of improvement peculiar to poetical diction results from the use of those words, and phrases, which, because they rarely occur in prose, and frequently in verse, are by the grammarian and lexicographer termed poetical. In these same languages abound more than others: but no language, perhaps, is altogether without them; and perhaps no language can be so, in which any number of good poems have been written. For poetry is better remembered than prose, especially by poetical authors; who will always be apt to imitate the phraseology of those they have been accustomed to read and admire: and thus, in the works of poets, down through successive generations, certain phrases may have been conveyed, which, though originally perhaps in common use, are now confined to poetical composition. Prose-writers are not so apt to imitate one another, at least in words and phrases, both because they do not so well remember one another's phraseology, and also because their language is less artificial, and must not, if they would make it easy and flowing, (without which it cannot be elegant), depart essentially from the style of correct conversation. Poets too, on account of the greater difficulty of their numbers, have, both in the choice and in the arrangement of words, a better claim to indulgence, and stand more in need of a discretionary power.

The language of Homer differs materially from what was written and spoken in Greece in the days of Socrates. It differs in the mode of inflection, it differs in the syntax, it differs even in the words: so that one might read Homer with ease, who could not read Xenophon; or Xenophon, without being able to read Homer. Yet we cannot believe that Homer, or the first Greek poet who wrote in his style, would make choice of a dialect quite different from what was intelligible in his own time: for poets have in all ages written with a view to be read, and to be read with pleasure; which they could not be, if their diction were hard to be understood. It is more reasonable to suppose, that the language of Homer is according to some ancient dialect, which, though not perhaps in familiar use among the Greeks at the time he wrote, was however intelligible. From the Homeric to the Socratic age, a period had elapsed of no less than 400 years; during which the style both of discourse and of writing must have undergone great alterations. Yet the Iliad continued the standard of heroic poetry, and was considered as the very perfection of poetical language; notwithstanding that some words in it were become so antiquated, or so ambiguous, that Aristotle himself seems to have been somewhat doubtful in regard to their meaning*. And if Chaucer's merit as a poet had been as great as Homer's, and the English cap. 25. tongue under Edward III. as perfect as the Greek was in the second century after the Trojan war, the style of Chaucer would probably have been our model for The rudeness of the style of Ennius has been imputed by the old critics to his having copied too closely the dialect of common life. But this appears to be a mistake. For if we compare the fragments of that author with the comedies of Plautus, who flourished in the same age, and whose language was certainly copied from that of common life, we shall be struck with an air of antiquity in the former that is not in the latter. Ennius, no doubt, like most other sublime poets, affected something of the antique in his expression; and many of his words and phrases, not adopted by any prose-writer now extant, are to be found in Lucretius and Virgil, and were by them transmitted to succeeding poets. These form part of the Roman poetical dialect; which appears from the writings of Virgil, where we have it in perfection, to have been very copious. The style of this charming poet is indeed so different from prose, and is altogether so peculiar, that it is perhaps impossible to analyse it on the common principles of Latin grammar. And yet no author can be more perspicuous or more expressive; notwithstanding the frequency of Greekism in his syntax, and his love of old words, which he, in the judgment of Quintilian, knew better than any other man how to improve into decoration.

The poetical dialect of modern Italy is so different from the prosaic, that persons who can read the historians, and even speak with tolerable fluency the language of that country, may yet find it difficult to construe a page of Petrarch or Tasso. Yet it is not probable, that Petrarch, whose works are a standard of the Italian poetical diction, made any material innovations in his native tongue. It is rather probable that he wrote it nearly as it was spoken in his time, that is, in the 14th century; omitting only harsh combinations, and taking that liberty which Homer probably, and Virgil certainly, took before him, of reviving such old, but not obsolete expressions, as seemed peculiarly significant and melodious; and polishing his style to that degree of elegance which human speech, without becoming unnatural, may admit of, and which the genius of poetry, as an art subservient to pleasure, may be thought to require.

The French poetry in general is distinguished from prose rather by the rhyme and the measure, than by any old or uncommon phraseology. Yet the French, on certain subjects, imitate the style of their old poets, of Marot in particular; and may therefore be said to have something of a poetical dialect, though far less extensive than the Italian, or even than the English. And it may be presumed, that in future ages they will have more of this dialect than they have at present. This may be inferred from the very uncommon merit of some of their late poets, particularly Boileau and La Fontaine, who, in their respective departments, will continue to be imitated, when the present modes of French prose are greatly changed; an event that, for all the pains they take to preserve their language, must inevitably happen, and whereof there are not wanting some presages already.

The English poetical dialect is not characterized by any peculiarities of inflection, nor by any great latitude in the use of foreign idioms. More copious it is, however, than one would at first imagine; as may appear from the following specimen and observations.

(1.) A few Greek and Latin idioms are common in English poetry, which are seldom or never to be met with in prose. Quenched of hope. Shakespeare.—Shorn of his beams. Milton.—Created thing nor valued he nor shun'd. Milton.—'Tis thus we riot, while who sow it starve. Pope.—This day be bread and peace my lot. Pope.—Into what pit thou see'st From what height fallen. Milton. He deceived The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had cast him out of heaven. Milton.—Some of these, with others to be found in Milton, seem to have been adopted for the sake of brevity, which in the poetical tongue is indispensible. For the same reason, perhaps the articles a and the are sometimes omitted by our poets, though less frequently in serious than burlesque composition.

In English, the adjective generally goes before the substantive, the nominative before the verb, and the active verb before (what we call) the accusative. Exceptions, however, to this rule, are not uncommon even in prose. But in poetry they are more frequent. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the right; and all the air a solemn stillness holds. In general, that verification may be left difficult, and the cadence more uniformly pleasing; and sometimes, too, in order to give energy to expression, or vivacity to an image;—the English poet is permitted to take much greater liberties than the prose-writer, in arranging his words, and modulating his lines and periods. Examples may be seen in every page of Paradise Lost.

(2.) Some of our poetical words take an additional syllable, that they may suit the verse the better; as, disport, dispair, disport, affright, enchain, for part, stain, sport, fright, chain. Others seem to be nothing else than common words made shorter, for the convenience of the versifier. Such are, auxiliary, sublunar, trump, vale, part, clime, submissive, frolic, plain, drear, dread, helm, morn, mead, eve and even, gan, illume and illumine, ope, boar, tide, savage, scape; for auxiliary, sublunar, trumpet, valley, depart, climate, submissive, frolicsome, complain, dreary, dreadful, helmet, morning, meadow, evening, began or began to, illuminate, open, hoary, abide, affluage, escape.—Of some of these the short form is the more ancient. In Scotland, even, morn, hide, savage, are still in vulgar use; but morn, except when contradistinguished to even, is synonymous, not with morning (as in the English poetical dialect), but with morrow.

The Latin poets, in a way somewhat similar, and perhaps for a similar reason, shortened fundamentum, tutamentum, munimentum, &c. into fundamen, tutamen, munimen.

(3.) Of the following words, which are now almost peculiar to poetry, the greater part are ancient, and were once no doubt in common use in England, as many of them still are in Scotland. Affled, amain, annoy (a noun), anon, aye (ever), bebeef, blithe, brand (sword), bridal, carol, dame (lady), fealty, fell (an adjective), gaude, gore, host (army), lambkin, late (of late), lay (poem), lea, glade, gleam, hurl, lore, need, orifont, plod (to travel laboriously), ringlet, rue. Of Poetical (a verb), ruth, ruthless, sojourn (a noun), smite, speed Words. (an active verb), save (except), spray (twig), bleed, strain (song), strand, swain, thrall, thrill, trail (a verb), troll, wail, weller, warble, wayward, woo, the while (in the mean time), yon, of yore.

(4.) These that follow are also poetical; but, so far as appears, were never in common use. Appal, arrowy, attune, battailious, breezy, car (chariot), clarian, cates, coursers, darkling, flicker, floweret, emblaze, garish, circle, impert, nightly, noisefest, pinion (wing), shadowy, slumberous, streamly, troublous, wilder (a verb), shrill (a verb), shook (shaken), madding, viewful.—The following too derived from the Greek and Latin, seem peculiar to poetry. Clang, clangor, choral, bland boreal, dire, enfanged, ire, irreful, love (to wash), nymph (lady, girl), orient, panoply, philomel, infuriate, focund, radiant, rapt, redolent, refugent, verdant, vernal, zephyr, zone (girdle), sylvans, suffuse.

(5.) In most languages, the rapidity of pronunciation abbreviates some of the commonest words, or even joins two, or perhaps more, of them, into one; and some of those abbreviated forms find admission into writing. The English language was quite disfigured by them in the end of the last century; but Swift, by his satire and example, brought them into disrepute; and, though some of them be retained in conversation, as don't, shan't, can't, they are now avoided in solemn style; and by elegant writers in general, except where the colloquial dialect is imitated, as in comedy. 'Tis and 'twas, since the time of Shaftesbury, seem to have been daily losing credit, at least in prose; but still have a place in poetry, perhaps because they contribute to conciseness. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side. Gray. 'Tis true, 'tis certain, man though dead, retains Part of himself. Pope. In verse too, over may be shortened into o'er, (which is the Scotch, and probably was the old English, pronunciation); never into ne'er; and from the and to, when they go before a word beginning with a vowel, the final letter is sometimes cut off. O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. Pope. Whereso'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll. Gray. 'T alarm th' eternal midnight of the grave.—These abbreviations are now peculiar to the poetical tongue, but not necessary to it. They sometimes promote brevity, and render versification less difficult.

(6.) Those words which are commonly called compound epithets, as rosy-finger'd, rosy bofond, many-twinkling, many-foundling, moss grown, bright-eyed, straw-built, spirit-stirring, incense-breathing, heaven-taught, love-whispering, late-reounding, are also to be considered as part of our poetical dialect. It is true, we have compounded adjectives in familiar use, as high seasoned, well-natured, ill-bred, and innumerable others. But we speak of those that are less common, that seldom occur except in poetry, and of which in prose the use would appear affected. And that they sometimes promote brevity and vivacity of expression, cannot be denied. But, as they give, when too frequent, a stiff and sinical air to a performance; as they are not always explicit in the sense, nor agreeable in the sound; as they are apt to produce a confusion, or too great a multiplicity, of images; as they tend to disfigure the language, and furnish a pretext for endless innovation; they ought to be used sparingly; and those only used, which the practice of popular authors has rendered familiar to the ear, and which are in themselves peculiar emphatical and harmonious.

(7.) In the transformation of nouns into verbs and participles, our poetical dialect admits of greater latitude than prose. Hymn, pillow, curtain, story, pillar, picture, peal, surge, cavern, honey, career, cincture, bofom, sphere, are common nouns; but to hymn, to pillow, curtained, pillared, pictured, pealing, surging, cavern'd, bonied, careering, cinctured, bofomed, sphered, would appear affected in prose, though in verse they are warranted by the very best authority.

Some late poets, particularly the imitators of Spenser, have introduced a great variety of uncommon words, as certes, efsoons, ne, whilom, tranfnews, moil, fone, lofel, albe, hight, digit, pight, thews, couthful, aftot, muchel, wend, rearre, &c. These were once poetical words, no doubt; but they are now obsolete, and to many readers unintelligible. No man of the present age, however conversant in this dialect, would naturally express himself in it on any interesting emergence; or, supposing this natural to the antiquarian, it would never appear so to the common hearer or reader. A mixture of these words, therefore, must ruin the pathos of modern language; and as they are not familiar to our ear, and plainly appear to be fought after and affected, will generally give a stiffness to modern versification. Yet in subjects approaching to the ludicrous they may have a good effect; as in the Schoolmistress of Sherriff, Parnell's Fairy-tale, Thomson's Castle of Indolence, and Pope's lines in the Dunciad upon Wormius. But this effect will be most pleasing to those who have least occasion to recur to the glossary.

Indeed, it is not always easy to fix the boundary between poetical and obsolete expressions. To many readers, lore, meed, behoof, blithe, gaude, spray, thrall, may already appear antiquated; and to some the style of Spenser, or even of Chaucer, may be as intelligible as that of Dryden. This however we may venture to affirm, that a word, which the majority of readers cannot understand without a glossary, may with reason be considered as obsolete; and ought not to be used in modern composition, unless revived, and recommended to the public ear, by some very eminent writer. There are but few words in Milton, as nathless, tine, frore, bofky, &c.; there are but one or two in Dryden, as falsify (p.); and in Pope, there are none at all, which every reader of our poetry may not be supposed to understand: whereas in Shakepear there are many, and in Spenser many more, for which one who knows English very well may be obliged to consult the dictionary. The practice of Milton, Dryden, or Pope, may therefore, in almost all cases, be admitted as good authority for the use of a poetical word. And in them, all the words above enumerated, as poetical, and in present use, may actually be found. And of such poets as may choose to observe this

(d) Dryden in one place (Eneid ix. ver. 1095.) uses Falstaffed to denote Pierced through and through. He acknowledges, that this use of the word is an innovation; and has nothing to plead for it but his own authority, and that Falstaffe in Italian sometimes means the same thing. Of Poetical this rule, it will not be said, either that they reject Words, the judgment of Quintilian, who recommends the newest of the old words, and the oldest of the new, or that they are unattentive to Pope's precept;

Be not the first by whom the new are tried. Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

Eff. on Crit. v. 335.

We must not suppose, that these poetical words never occur at all except in poetry. Even from conversation they are not excluded; and the ancient critics allow, that they may be admitted into prose; where they occasionally confer dignity upon a sublime subject, or heighten the ludicrous qualities of a mean one. But it is in poetry only, where the frequent use of them does not favour of affectation.

Nor must we suppose them essential to this art. Many passages there are of exquisite poetry, wherein not a single phrase occurs that might not be used in prose. In fact, the influence of these words in adorning English verse is not very extensive. Some influence however they have. They serve to render the poetical style, first, more melodious; and, secondly, more solemn.

First, They render the poetical style more melodious, and more easily reducible into measure. Words of unwieldy size, or difficult pronunciation, are never used by correct poets, where they can be avoided; unless in their sound they have something imitative of the sense. Homer's poetical inflections contribute wonderfully to the sweetness of his numbers: and if the reader is pleased to look back to the specimen above given of the English poetical dialect, he will find that the words are in general well-founded, and such as may coalesce with other words, without producing harsh combinations. Quintilian observes, that poets, for the sake of their verse, are indulged in many liberties, not granted to the orator, of lengthening, shortening, and dividing their words *—and if the Greek and Roman poets claimed this indulgence from necessity, and obtained it, the English, those of them especially who write in rhyme, may claim it with better reason; as the words of their language are less musical, and far less susceptible of variety in arrangement and syntax.

Secondly, Such poetical words as are known to be ancient have something venerable in their appearance, and impart a solemnity to all around them. This remark is from Quintilian; who adds, that they give to a composition that cast and colour of antiquity, which in painting is so highly valued, but which art can never effectually imitate †. Poetical words that are either not ancient, or not known to be such, have, however, a pleasing effect from association. We are accustomed to meet with them in sublime and elegant writing; and hence they come to acquire sublimity and elegance: Even as the words we hear on familiar occasions come to be accounted familiar; and as those that take their rise among pick-pockets, gamblers, and gypsies, are thought too indelicate to be used by any person of taste or good-manners. When one hears the following lines, which abound in poetical words,

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed:

—one is as sensible of the dignity of the language, as one would be of the vileness or vulgarity of that man's speech, who should prove his acquaintance with Bridewell, by interlarding his discourse with such terms as mill-doll, queer cull, or nubbing cheat ‡; or who, in imitation of fops and gamblers, should, on the common occasions of life, talk of being beat hollow, or saving his disfiance §.—What gives dignity to persons gives dignity to language. A man of this character is one who has borne important employments, been connected with honourable associates, and never degraded himself by levity or immorality of conduct. Dignified phrases are those which have been used to express elevated sentiments, have always made their appearance in elegant composition, and have never been profaned by giving permanency or utterance to the pallions of the vile, the giddy, or the worthless. And as by an active old age, the dignity of such men is confirmed and heightened; so the dignity of such words, if they be not suffered to fall into disuse, seldom fails to improve by length of time.

Art 2. Of Tropes and Figures.

19. If it appear, that, by means of figures, language may be made more pleasing, and more natural, than it would be without them; it will follow, that to poetic language, whose end is to please by imitating nature, figures must be not only ornamental, but necessary. It will here be proper, therefore, first to point out the importance and utility of figurative language; secondly, to show, that figures are more necessary to poetry in general, than to any other mode of writing.

I. As to the importance and utility of figurative expression, in making language more pleasing and more natural; it may be remarked,

(1.) That tropes and figures are often necessary to supply the unavoidable defects of language. When proper words are wanting, or not recollected, or when we do not choose to be always repeating them, we must have recourse to tropes and figures.—When philosophers began to explain the operations of the mind, they found, that most of the words in common use, being framed to answer the more obvious exigencies of life, were in their proper signification applicable to matter only and its qualities. What was to be done in this case? Would they think of making a new language to express the qualities of mind? No; that would have been difficult, or impracticable; and granting it both practicable and easy, they must have foreseen, that nobody would read or listen to what was thus spoken or written, in a new, and consequently in an unknown, tongue. They therefore took the language as they found it; and, wherever they thought there was a similarity or analogy between the qualities of the mind and the qualities of matter, scrupled not to use the names of the material qualities tropically, by applying them to the mental qualities. Hence came the phrases, solidity of judgment, warmth of imagination, enlargement of understanding, and many others; which, though figurative, express the meaning just as well as proper words would have done. Of Tropes In fact, numerous as the words in every language are, they must always fall short of the unbounded variety of human thoughts and perceptions. Tastes and smells are almost as numerous as the species of bodies. Sounds admit of perceptible varieties that surpass all computation, and the seven primary colours may be diversified without end. If each variety of external perception were to have a name, language would be insurmountably difficult; nay, if men were to appropriate a class of names to each particular sense, they would multiply words exceedingly, without adding anything to the clearness of speech. Those words, therefore, that in their proper signification denote the objects of one sense, we often apply tropically to the objects of another, and say, Sweet taste, sweet smell, sweet sound; sharp point, sharp taste, sharp sound; harmony of sounds, harmony of colours, harmony of parts; soft silk, soft colour, soft sound, soft temper; and so in a thousand instances: and yet these words, in their tropical signification, are not less intelligible than in their proper one; for sharp taste and sharp sound, are as expressive as sharp sword; and harmony of tones is not better understood by the musician, than harmony of parts by the architect, and harmony of colours by the painter.

Savages, illiterate persons, and children, have comparatively but few words in proportion to the things they may have occasion to speak of; and must therefore recur to tropes and figures more frequently, than persons of copious elocution. A seaman, or mechanic, even when he talks of that which does not belong to his art, borrows his language from that which does; and this makes his diction figurative to a degree that is sometimes entertaining enough. "Death (says a seaman in one of Smollet's novels) has not yet boarded my comrade; but they have been yard-arm and yard-arm these three glases." His starboard eye is open, but fast jammed in his head; and the halyards of his under jaw have given way." These phrases are exaggerated; but we allow them to be natural, because we know that illiterate people are apt to make use of tropes and figures taken from their own trade, even when they speak of things that are very remote and incongruous. In those poems, therefore, that imitate the conversation of illiterate persons, as in comedy, farce, and pastoral, such figures judiciously applied may render the imitation more pleasing, because more exact and natural.

Words that are untuneable and harsh, the poet is often obliged to avoid, when perhaps he has no other way to express their meaning than by tropes and figures; and sometimes the measure of his verse may oblige him to reject a proper word that is not harsh, merely on account of its being too long, or too short, or in any other way unsuitable to the rhythm, or to the rhyme. And hence another use of figurative language, that it contributes to poetical harmony. Thus, to press the plain is frequently used to signify to be slain in battle; liquid plain is put for ocean, blue serene for sky, and sylvan reign for country life.

(2.) Tropes and figures are favourable to delicacy. When the proper name of a thing is in any respect unpleasant, a well-chosen trope will convey the idea in such a way as to give no offence. This is agreeable, and even necessary, in polite conversation, and cannot be dispensed with in elegant writing of any kind. Many words, from their being often applied to vulgar use, acquire a meanness that disqualifies them for a place in serious poetry; while perhaps, under the influence of a different system of manners, the corresponding words in another language may be elegant, or at least not vulgar. When one reads Homer in the Greek, one takes no offence at his calling Eumeus by a name which, literally rendered, signifies swine herd; first, because the Greek word is well-founded in itself; secondly, because we have never heard it pronounced in conversation, nor consequently debased by vulgar use; and, thirdly, because we know, that the office denoted by it was, in the age of Eumeus, both important and honourable. But Pope would have been blamed, if a name so indelicate as swine-herd, had in his translation been applied to so eminent a personage; and therefore he judiciously makes use of the trope synecdoche, and calls him swain;† or, a word both elegant and poetical, and not likely to lead the reader into any mistake about the person spoken of, as his employment had been described in a preceding passage. The same Eumeus is said, in the simple but melodious language of the original, to have been making his own shoes when Ulysses came to his door; a work which in those days the greatest heroes would often find necessary. This too the translator softens by a tropical expression?

Here sat Eumeus, and his cares applied. To form strong buckles of well-seaon'd hide.

A hundred other examples might be quoted from this translation; but these will explain our meaning.

There are other occasions, on which the delicacy of figurative language is still more needful: as in Virgil's account of the effects of animal-love, and of the plague among the beasts, in the third Georgic; where Dryden's style, by being less figurative than the original, is in one place exceedingly filthy, and in another shockingly obscene.

Hobbes could construe a Greek author; but his skill in words must have been all derived from the dictionary: for he seems not to have known, that any one articulate sound could be more agreeable, or any one phrase more dignified, than any other. In his Iliad and Odyssey, even when he hits the author's sense (which is not always the case), he proves, by his choice of words, that of harmony, elegance, or energy of style, he had no manner of conception. And hence that work, though called a Translation of Homer, does not even deserve the name of poem; because it is in every respect unpleasing, being nothing more than a fictitious narrative delivered in a mean prose, with the additional meanness of harsh rhyme, and untuneable measure.—Trapp understood Virgil well enough as a grammarian, and had a taste for his beauties: yet his translation bears no resemblance to Virgil; which is owing to the same cause, an imprudent choice of words and figures, and a total want of harmony.

The delicacy we here contend for, may indeed, both in conversation and in writing, be carried too far. To call killing an innocent man in a duel an affair of honour, and a violation of the rights of wedlock an affair of gallantry, is a prostitution of figurative language. Nor is it any credit to us, that we are said to have upwards of 40 figurative phrases to denote excessive drinking. Language of this sort generally implies, that the public abhorrence of such crimes is not so strong as it ought to be; and it is a question, whether even our morals might not be improved, if we were to call these and such like crimes by their proper names, murder, adultery, drunkenness, flattness; names, that not only express our meaning, but also betoken our disapprobation.—As to writing, it cannot be denied, that even Pope himself, in the excellent version just now quoted, has sometimes, for the sake of his numbers, or for fear of giving offence by too close an imitation of Homer's simplicity, employed tropes and figures too quaint or too solemn for the occasion. And the finical style is in part characterized by the writer's dislike to literal expressions, and affectedly substituting in their stead unnecessary tropes and figures. With these authors, a man's only child must always be his only hope; a country-maid becomes a rural beauty, or perhaps a nymph of the groves; if flattery ting at all, it must be a syren song; the shepherd's flute dwindles into an eaten reed, and his crook is exalted into a sceptre; the silver lilies rise from their golden beds, and languish to the complaining gale. A young woman, though a good Christian, cannot make herself agreeable without sacrificing to the Graces nor hope to do any execution among the gentle swains, till a whole legion of Cupids, armed with flames and darts, and other weapons, begin to discharge from her eyes their formidable artillery. For the sake of variety, or of the verse, some of these figures may now and then find a place in a poem; but in prose, unless very sparingly used, they favour of affectation.

(3.) Tropes and figures promote brevity; and brevity, united with perspicuity, is always agreeable. An example or two will be given in the next paragraph. Sentiments thus delivered, and imagery thus painted, are readily apprehended by the mind, make a strong impression upon the fancy, and remain long in the memory; whereas too many words, even when the meaning is good, never fail to bring disgust and weariness. They argue a debility of mind which hinders the author from seeing his thoughts in one distinct point of view; and they also encourage a suspicion, that there is something faulty or defective in the matter. In the poetical style, therefore, which is addressed to the fancy and passions, and intended to make a vivid, a pleasing, and a permanent impression, brevity, and consequently tropes and figures are indispensable. And a language will always be the better suited to poetical purposes, the more it admits of this brevity—a character which is more conspicuous in the Greek and Latin than in any modern tongue, and much less in the French than in the Italian or English.

(4.) Tropes and figures contribute to strength or energy of language, not only by their conciseness, but also by conveying to the fancy ideas that are easily comprehended, and make a strong impression. We are powerfully affected with what we see, or feel, or hear. When a sentiment comes enforced or illustrated by figures taken from objects of sight, or touch, or hearing, one thinks, as it were, that one sees, or feels, or hears, the thing spoken of; and thus, what in itself would perhaps be obscure, or is merely intellectual, may be made to seize our attention and interest our passions almost as effectually as if it were an object of outward sense. When Virgil calls the Scipios thunderbolts of war, he very strongly expresses in one word, and by one image, the rapidity of their victories, the size of their achievements made in the world, and the ruin and contumbration that attended their irresistible career.—When Homer calls Ajax the bulwark of the Greeks, he paints with equal brevity his vast size and strength, the difficulty of prevailing against him, and the confidence wherewith his countrymen repented on his valour.—When Solomon says of the strange woman, or harlot, that "her feet go down to death," he lets us know, not only that her path ends in destruction, but also, that they who accompany her will find it easy to go forwards to ruin, and difficult to return to their duty.—Satan's enormous magnitude, and resplendent appearance, his perpendicular ascent thro' a region of darkness, and the inconceivable rapidity of his motion, are all painted out to our fancy by Milton, in one very short similitude,

Sprung upward, like—a pyramid of fire.

Par. Lost, b. 4. v. 1013.

To take in the full meaning of which figure, we must imagine ourselves in chaos, and a vast luminous body rising upward, near the place where we are, so swiftly as to appear a continued track of light, and lessening to the view according to the increase of distance, till it end in a point, and then disappear; and all this must be supposed to strike our eye at one instant.—Equally to this in propriety, tho' not in magnificence, is that allegory of Gray,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave: Which presents to the imagination a wide plain, where several roads appear, crowded with glittering multitudes, and issuing from different quarters, but drawing nearer and nearer as they advance, till they terminate in the dark and narrow house, where all their glories enter in succession, and disappear for ever.

When it is said in Scripture, of a good man who died, that he fell asleep, what a number of ideas are at once conveyed to our imagination, by this beautiful and expressive figure! As a labourer, at the close of day, goes to sleep, with the satisfaction of having performed his work, and with the agreeable hope of awakening in the morning of a new day, refreshed and cheerful; so a good man, at the end of life, resigns himself calm and contented to the will of his Maker, with the sweet reflection of having endeavoured to do his duty, and with the transporting hope of soon awaking in the regions of light, to life and happiness eternal. The figure also suggests, that to a good man the transition from life to death is, even in the sensation, no more painful, than when our faculties melt away into the pleasing insensibility of sleep.—Satan, flying among the stars, is said by Milton to "fall between worlds and worlds;" which has an elegance and force far superior to the proper word fly. For by this allusion to a ship, we are made to form a lively idea of his great size, and to conceive of his motion, that it was equable and majestic.—Virgil uses a happy figure to express the size of the great wooden horse, by means of which the Greeks were conveyed into Troy: "Equum divina..." Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

The phrase, however, though bold, is emphatical; and gives a noble idea of the durability of poetry, as well as of the art and attention requisite to form a good poem.—There are hundreds of tropical expressions in common use, incomparably more energetic than any proper words of equal brevity that could be put in their place. A cheek burning with blushes, is a trope which at once describes the colour as it appears to the beholder, and the glowing heat as it is felt by the person blushing. Chilled with despondence, perplexed with astonishment, thunderstruck with disagreeable and unexpected intelligence, melted with love or pity, dissolved in luxury, hardened in wickedness, softening into remorse, inflamed with desire, toiled with uncertainty, &c.—every one is sensible of the force of these and the like phrases, and that they must contribute to the energy of composition.

(5.) Tropes and figures promote strength of expression; and are in poetry peculiarly requisite, because they are often more natural, and more imitative, than proper words. In fact, this is so much the case, that it would be impossible to imitate the language of passion without them. It is true, that when the mind is agitated, one does not run out into allegories, or long-winded similitudes, or any of the figures that require much attention and many words, or that tend to withdraw the fancy from the object of the passion. Yet the language of many passions must be figurative, notwithstanding; because they rouse the fancy, and direct it to objects congenial to their own nature, which diversify the language of the speaker with a multitude of allusions. The fancy of a very angry man, for example, presents to his view a train of disagreeable ideas connected with the passion of anger, and tending to encourage it; and if he speak without restraint during the paroxysm of his rage, those ideas will force themselves upon him, and compel him to give them utterance. "Infernal monster! (he will say),—my blood boils at him; he has used me like a dog; never was man so injured as I have been by this barbarian. He has no more sense of propriety than a stone. His countenance is diabolical, and his soul as ugly as his countenance. His heart is cold and hard, and his resolutions dark and bloody," &c. This speech is wholly figurative. It is made up of metaphors and hyperboles, which, with the prolepsis and apostrophe, are the most passionate of all the figures. Lear, driven out of doors by his unnatural daughters, in the midst of darkness, thunder, and tempest, naturally breaks forth (for his indignation is just now raised to the very highest pitch) into the following violent exclamation against the crimes of mankind, in which almost every word is figurative.

Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipt of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand, Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue, That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert, and convenient seeming,

Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. King Lear.

—The vehemence of maternal love, and sorrow from the apprehension of losing her child, make the Lady Constance utter a language that is strongly figurative, though quite suitable to the condition and character of the speaker. The passage is too long for a quotation, but concludes thus:

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son, My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure. King John.

—Similar to this, and equally expressive of conjugal love, is that beautiful hyperbole in Homer; where Andromache, to dissuade her husband from going out to the battle, tells him, that she had now no mother, father, or brethren, all her kindred being dead, and her native country desolate; and then tenderly adds,

But while my Hector yet survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee. Iliad, b. 6.

As the passions that agitate the soul, and rouse the fancy, are apt to vent themselves in tropes and figures, so those that depress the mind adopt for the most part a plain diction without any ornament. For to a dejected mind, wherein the imagination is generally inactive, it is not probable that any great variety of ideas will present themselves; and when these are few and familiar, the words that express them must be simple. As no author equals Shakespeare in boldness or variety of figures, when he copies the style of those violent passions that stimulate the fancy; so, when he would exhibit the human mind in a dejected state, no uninspired writer excels him in simplicity. The same Lear whose resentment had impaired his understanding, while it broke out in the most boisterous language, when, after some medical applications, he recovers his reason, his rage being now exhausted, his pride humbled, and his spirits totally depressed, speaks in a style than which nothing can be imagined more simple, or more affecting:

Pray, do not mock me; I am a very foolish, fond old man, Fourscore and upward, and, to deal plainly with you, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments: nor I know not Where I did lodge last night.—Lear, act 4. sc. 7.

—Desdemona, ever gentle, artless, and sincere, shocked at the unkindness of her husband, and overcome with melancholy, speaks in a style so beautifully simple, and so perfectly natural, that one knows not what to say in commendation of it:

My mother had a maid call'd Barbara; She was in love, and he she lov'd prov'd mad, And did forsake her. She had a song of willow; An old thing it was, but it expres'd her fortune, And she died singing it. That song to-night Will not go from my mind; I have much to do, But to go hang my head all at one side, Sometimes the imagination, even when exerted to the utmost, takes in but few ideas. This happens when the attention is totally engrossed by some very great object; admiration being one of those emotions that rather suspend the exercise of the faculties, than push them into action. And here, too, the simplest language is the most natural; as when Milton says of the Deity, that he sits "high-thron'd above all height." And as this simplicity is more suitable to that one great exertion which occupies the speaker's mind, than a more elaborate imagery or language would have been; so has it also a more powerful effect in fixing and elevating the imagination of the hearer: for, to introduce other thoughts for the sake of illustrating what cannot be illustrated, could answer no other purpose than to draw off the attention from the principal idea. In these and the like cases, the fancy left to itself will have more satisfaction in pursuing at leisure its own speculations, than in attending to those of others; as they who see for the first time some admirable object, would choose rather to feast upon it in silence, than to have their thoughts interrupted by a long description from another person, informing them of nothing but what they see before them, are already acquainted with, or may easily conceive.

It was remarked above, that the hyperbole, prolepsis, and apostrophe, are among the most passionate figures. This deserves illustration.

1stly, A very angry man is apt to think the injury he has just received, greater than it really is; and, if he proceed immediately to retaliate by word or deed, seldom fails to exceed the due bounds, and to become injurious in his turn. The fond parent looks upon his child as a prodigy of genius and beauty; and the romantic lover will not be persuaded that his mistress has nothing supernatural either in her mind or person. Fear, in like manner, not only magnifies its object when real, but even forms an object out of nothing, and mistakes the fictions of fancy for the intimations of sense.—No wonder then, that they who speak according to the impulse of passion, should speak hyperbolically; that the angry man should exaggerate the injury he has received, and the vengeance he is going to inflict; that the sorrowful should magnify what they have lost, and the joyful what they have obtained; that the lover should speak extravagantly of the beauty of his mistress, the coward of the dangers he has encountered, and the credulous clown of the miracles performed by the juggler. In fact, these people would not do justice to what they feel, if they did not say more than the truth. The valiant man, on the other hand, as naturally adopts the diminishing hyperbole when he speaks of danger; and the man of sense, when he is obliged to mention his own virtue or ability; because it appears to him, or he is willing to consider it, as less than the truth, or at best as inconsiderable. Contempt uses the same figure; and therefore Petruchio, affecting that passion, affects also the language of it:

Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble, Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail, Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket, thou! Brav'd in mine own house with a skin of thread!

Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant! Taming of the Shrew, act 4, sc. 1.

For some passions consider their objects as important, and others as unimportant. Of the former sort are anger, love, fear, admiration, joy, sorrow, pride; of the latter are contempt and courage. Those may be said to subdue the mind to the object; and these, to subdue the object to the mind. And the former, when violent, always magnify their objects; whence the hyperbole called amplification, or auxesis; and the latter as constantly diminish theirs, and give rise to the hyperbole called meiosis, or diminution.—Even when the mind cannot be said to be under the influence of any violent passion, we naturally employ the same figure, when we would express another very strongly with any idea. He is a walking shadow; he is worn to skin and bone; he has one foot in the grave, and the other following;—these, and the like phrases, are proved to be natural by their frequency. By introducing great ideas, the hyperbole is further useful in poetry, as a source of the sublime; but when employed injudiciously, is very apt to become ridiculous. Cowley makes Goliath as big as the hill down which he was marching; and tells us, that when he came into the valley, he seemed to fill it, and to overtop the neighbouring mountains, (which, by the by, seems rather to lessen the mountains and valleys, than to magnify the giant); nay, he adds, that the sun started back when he saw the splendour of his arms. This poet seems to have thought, that the figure in question could never be sufficiently enormous; but Quintilian would have taught him, "Quamvis omnis hyperbole ultra fidem, non tamen esse debet ultra modum." The reason is, that this figure, when excessive, betokens rather absolute infatuation, than intense emotion; and resembles the efforts of a ranting tragedian, or the ravings of an enthusiastic declaimer, who, by putting on the gestures and looks of a lunatic, satisfy the discerning part of their audience, that, instead of feeling strongly, they have no rational feelings at all. In the wildest energies of nature, there is a modesty, which the imitative artist will be careful never to overstep.

2ndly, That figure, by which things are spoken of as if they were persons, is called prolepsis, or personification. It is a bold figure, and yet is often natural. Long acquaintance recommends to some share in our affection even things inanimate, as a house, a tree, a rock, a mountain, a country; and were we to leave such a thing, without hope of return, we should be inclined to address it with a farewell, as if it were a perceiving creature. Nay, we find that ignorant nations have actually worshipped such things, or considered them as the haunt of certain powerful beings. Dryads and Hamadryads were by the Greeks and Romans supposed to preside over trees and groves; river-gods and nymphs, over streams and fountains; little deities, called Lares and Penates, were believed to be the guardians of hearths and houses. In Scotland there is hardly a hill remarkable for the beauty of its shape, that was not in former times thought to be the habitation of fairies. Nay, modern as well as ancient superstition has appropriated the waters to a peculiar sort of demon or goblin, and peopled the very regions of death. Of Tropes death, the tombs and charnel-houses, with multitudes of ghouls and phantoms.—Besides, when things inanimate make a strong impression upon us, whether agreeable or otherwise, we are apt to address them in terms of affection or dislike. The sailor bleffes the plank that brought him ashore from the shipwreck; and the passionate man, and sometimes even the philosopher, will say bitter words to the stumbling-block that gave him a fall.—Moreover, a man agitated with any interesting passion, especially of long continuance, is apt to fancy that all nature sympathizes with him. If he has lost a beloved friend, he thinks the sun less bright than at other times; and in the fighting of the winds and groves, in the lowings of the herd, and in the murmurs of the stream, he seems to hear the voice of lamentation. But when joy or hope predominate, the whole world affumes a gay appearance. In the contemplation of every part of nature, of every condition of mankind, of every form of human society, the benevolent and the pious man, the morose and the cheerful, the miser and the misanthrope, finds occasion to indulge his favorite passion, and feels, or thinks he feels, his own temper reflected back in the actions, sympathies, and tendencies of other things and persons. Our affections are indeed the medium through which we may be said to survey ourselves, and everything else; and whatever be our inward frame, we are apt to perceive a wonderful congeniality in the world without us. And hence, the fancy, when roused by real emotions, or by the pathos of composition, is easily reconciled to those figures of speech that ascribe sympathy, perception, and the other attributes of animal life, to things inanimate, or even to notions merely intellectual.—Motion, too, bears a close affinity to action, and affects our imagination nearly in the same manner; and we see a great part of nature in motion, and by their sensible effects are led to contemplate energies innumerable. These conduct the rational mind to the Great First Cause; and these, in times of ignorance, disposed the vulgar to believe in a variety of subordinate agents employed in producing those appearances that could not otherwise be accounted for. Hence an endless train of fabulous deities, and of witches, demons, fairies, genii; which, if they prove our reason weak and our fancy strong, prove also, that personification is natural to the human mind; and that a right use of this figure may have a powerful effect, in fabulous writing especially, to engage our sympathy in behalf of things as well as persons: for nothing can give lasting delight to a moral being, but that which awakens sympathy, and touches the heart; and though it be true, that we sympathize in some degree even with inanimate things, yet what has, or is supposed to have, life, calls forth a more sincere and more permanent fellow-feeling.—Let it be observed further, that to awaken our sympathetic feelings, a lively conception of their object is necessary. This indeed is true of almost all our emotions; their keenness is in proportion to the vivacity of the perceptions that excite them. Distress that we see, is more affecting than what we only hear of*; a perusal of the gayest scenes in a comedy does not rouse the mind so effectually, as the presence of a cheerful companion; and the death of a friend is of greater energy in producing serious effects, and the consideration of our latter end, than all the pathos of Young. Of descriptions addressed to the fancy, those that are most vivid and picturesque will generally be found to have the most powerful influence over our affections; and those that exhibit persons engaged in action, and adorned with visible insignia, give a brisker impulse to the faculties, that such as convey intellectual ideas only, or images taken from still life. No abstract notion of time, or of love, can be so striking to the fancy, as the image of an old man accoutred with a scythe, or of a beautiful boy with wings and a bow and arrows: and no physiological account of frenzy could suggest so vivid an idea, as the poet has given us in that exquisite portrait.

And moody madness laughing wild, amid severest woe: And for this reason partly it is, that the epic poet, in order to work the more effectually upon our passions and imagination, refers the secret springs of human conduct, and the vicissitudes of human affairs, to the agency of personified causes; that is, to the machinery of gods and goddesses, angels, demons, magicians, and other powerful beings. And hence, in all sublime poetry, life and motion, with their several modes and attributes, are liberally bestowed on those objects where-with the author intends that we should be strongly impressed: scenes perfectly inanimate, and still, tending rather to diffuse a languor over the mind, than to communicate to our internal powers those lively energies, without which a being essentially active can never receive complete gratification.—Lastly, some violent passions are peculiarly inclined to change things into persons. The horrors of his mind haunted Orestes in the shape of furies. Conscience, in the form of the murdered person, stares the murderer in the face, and often terrifies him to distraction. The superstitious man, travelling alone in the dark, mistakes a white stone for a ghost, a bush for a demon, a tree waving with the wind for an enormous giant brandishing a hundred arms. The lunatic and enthusiastic converse with persons who exist only in their own distempered fancy: and the glutton, and the miser, if they were to give utterance to all their thoughts, would often, it is presumable, speak, the one of his gold, the other of his belly, not only as a person, but as a god,—the object of his warmest love and most devout regard.—More need not be said to prove, that personification is natural, and may frequently contribute to the pathos, energy, and beauty of poetic language.

3dly, Apostrophe, or a sudden diversion of speech from one person to another person or thing, is a figure nearly related to the former. Poets sometimes make use of it, in order to help out their verse, or merely to give variety to their style: but on those occasions it is to be considered as rather a trick of art, than an effort of nature. It is most natural, and most pathetic, when the person or thing to whom the apostrophe is made, and for whose sake we give a new direction to our speech, is in our eyes eminently distinguished for good or evil, or raises within us some sudden and powerful emotion, such as the hearer would acquiesce in, or at least acknowledge to be reasonable. But this, like the other pathetic figures, must be used with great prudence. For if, instead of calling forth the hearer's sympathy, it should only betray the levity of the speaker, or such wanderings of his mind as neither the subject nor the occasion would lead one to expect, it will then Of Tropes then create disgust, instead of approbation.—The orator, therefore, must not attempt the passionate apostrophe, till the minds of the hearers be prepared to join in it. And every audience is not equally obsequious in this respect. In the forum of ancient Rome that would have passed for sublime and pathetic, which in the most respectable British auditoriums would appear ridiculous. For our style of public speaking is cool and argumentative; and partakes less of enthusiasm than the Roman did, and much less than the modern French or Italian. Of British eloquence, particularly that of the pulpit, the chief recommendations are gravity and simplicity. And it is vain to say, that our oratory ought to be more vehement: for that matter depends on causes, which it is not only inexpedient, but impossible to alter; namely, on the character and spirit of the people, and their rational notions in regard to religion, policy, and literature. The exclamations of Cicero would weigh but little in our parliament; and many of those which we meet with in French sermons would not be more effectual if attempted in our pulpit.

To see one of our preachers, who the moment before was a cool reasoner, a temperate speaker, an humble Christian, and an orthodox divine, break out into a sudden apostrophe to the immortal powers, or to the walls of the church, tends to force a smile, rather than a tear, from those among us who reflect, that there is nothing in the subject, and should be nothing in the orator, to warrant such wanderings of fancy, or vehemence of emotion. If he be careful to cultivate a pure style, and a grave and graceful utterance, a British clergyman, who speaks from conviction the plain unaffected words of truth and soberness, of benevolence and piety, will, it is believed, convey more pathetic, as well as more permanent, impressions to the heart, and be more useful as a Christian teacher, than if he were to put in practice all the attitudes of Roscius, and all the tropes and figures of Cicero.

But where the language of passion and enthusiasm is permitted to display itself, whatever raises any strong emotion, whether it be animated or inanimate, absent or present, sensible or intellectual, may give rise to the apostrophe. A man in a distant country, speaking of the place of his birth, might naturally exclaim, "O my dear native land, shall I never see thee more?" Or, when some great misfortune befalls him, "Happy are ye, O my parents, that ye are not alive to see this."

—We have a beautiful apostrophe in the third book of the Eneid, where Eneas, who is telling his story to Dido, happening to mention the death of his father, makes a sudden address to him as follows:

hic, pelagi tot tempestatibus actus, Heu, genitorem, omnis curae causique levamen, Amitto Anchisen:—hic me, pater optime, fessum Definis, heu, tantis nequiequam erete periclis!

This apostrophe has a pleasing effect. It seems to intimate, that the love which the hero bore his father was so great, that when he mentioned him, he forgot every thing else; and, without minding his company, one of whom was a queen, suddenly addressed himself to that which, though present only in idea, was still a principal object of his affection. An emotion so warm and so reasonable cannot fail to command the sympathy of the reader.—When Michael, in the eleventh book of Paradise Lost, announces to Adam and Eve the necessity of their immediate departure from the garden of Eden, the poet's art in preserving the decorum of the two characters is very remarkable. Pierced to the heart at the thought of leaving that happy place, Eve, in all the violence of ungovernable sorrow, breaks forth into a pathetic apostrophe to Paradise, to the flowers she had reared, and to the nuptial bower she had adorned. Adam makes no address to the walks, the trees, or the flowers of the garden, the loss whereof did not too much afflict him; but, in his reply to the Archangel, expresses, without a figure, his regret for being banished from a place where he had been so oft honoured with a sensible manifestation of the Divine presence. The use of the apostrophe in the one case, and the omission of it in the other, not only gives a beautiful variety to the style, but also marks that superior elevation and composure of mind, by which the poet had all along distinguished the character of Adam.—One of the finest applications of this figure that is anywhere to be seen, is in the fourth book of the same poem; where the author, catching by sympathy the devotion of our first parents, suddenly drops his narrative, and joins his voice to theirs in adoring the Father of the universe.

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n, Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, And starry pole:—Thou also mad'it the night, Maker Omnipotent! and thou the day, Which we in our appointed work employ'd Have finish'd.

Milton took the hint of this fine contrivance from a well-known passage of Virgil:

Hic juvenum chorus, ille senum; qui carmine laudes Herculeas et facta ferant; ut duros mille labores Regi sub Eurystheo, satis Jovinis inique Pertulerit:—Tu nubigenas, invicte, bimembres Hylosum Pholoumque manu; tu Cresia macetas Prodigia.

The beauty arising from diversified composition is the same in both, and very great in each. But every reader must feel, that the figure is incomparably more affecting to the mind in the imitation, than in the original. So true it is, that the most rational emotions raise the most intense fellow-feeling; and that the apostrophe is then the most emphatical, when it displays those workings of human affection which are at once ardent and well-founded.

To conclude this head: Tropes and figures, particularly the metaphor, similitude, and allegory, are further useful in beautifying language, by suggesting, together with the thoughts essential to the subject, an endless variety of agreeable images, for which there would be no place, if writers were always to confine themselves to the proper names of things. And this beauty and variety, judiciously applied, is far from distracting, that it tends rather to fix the attention, and captivate the heart of the readers, by giving light, and life, and pathos to the whole composition.

II. That tropes and figures are more necessary to poetry, than to any other mode of writing, was the second point proposed to be illustrated in this section. Language, as already observed, is then natural, when it is suitable to the supposed condition of the speaker. Figurative language is peculiarly suitable to the supposed condition of the poet; because figures are suggested by the fancy; and the fancy of him who composes poetry is more employed, than that of any other author. Of all historical, philosophical, and theological researches, the object is real truth, which is fixed and permanent. The aim of rhetorical declamation (according to Cicero) is apparent truth; which, being less determinate, leaves the fancy of the speaker more free, gives greater scope to the inventive powers, and supplies the materials of a more figurative phraseology. But the poet is subject to no restraints, but those of verisimilitude; which is still less determinate than rhetorical truth. He seeks not to convince the judgment of his reader by arguments of either real or apparent cogency; he means only to please and interest him, by an appeal to his sensibility and imagination. His own imagination is therefore continually at work, ranging through the whole of real and probable existence, "glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," in quest of images and ideas suited to the emotions he himself feels, and to the sympathies he would communicate to others. And, consequently, figures of speech, the offspring of excursive fancy, must (if he speak according to what he is supposed to think and feel, that is, according to his supposed condition) tincture the language of the poet more than that of any other composer. So that, if figurative diction be unnatural in geometry, because all wanderings of fancy are unsuitable, and even impossible, to the geometrician, while intent upon his argument; it is, upon the same principle, perfectly natural, and even unavoidable, in poetry; because the more a poet attends to his subject, and the better qualified he is to do it justice, the more active will his imagination be, and the more diversified the ideas that present themselves to his mind.—Besides, the true poet addresses himself to the passions and sympathies of mankind; which, till his own be raised, he cannot hope to do with success. And it is the nature of many passions, though not of all, to increase the activity of imagination: and an active imagination naturally vents itself in figurative language; nay, unless restrained by a correct taste, has a tendency to succeed in it;—of which bishop Taylor, and lord Verulam, two geniuses different in kind, but of the highest order, are memorable examples.

We said, that "the poet seeks not to convince the judgment of his reader by arguments of either real or apparent cogency."—We do not mean, that in poetry argument has no place. The most legitimate reasoning, the founded philosophy, and narratives purely historical, may appear in a poem, and contribute greatly to the honour of the author, and to the importance of his work. All this we have in Paradise Lost.—We mean, that what distinguishes pure poetry from other writing, is its aptitude, not to sway the judgment by reasoning, but to please the fancy, and move the passions, by a lively imitation of nature. Nor would we exclude poetical embellishment from history, or even from philosophy. Plato's Dialogues and Addison's Moral Essays abound in poetical imagery; and Livy and Tacitus often amuse their readers with poetical description. In like manner, though geometry and physics be different sciences;—though abstract ideas be the subject, and pure demonstration or intuition the evidence, of the former; and though the material universe, and the informations of sense, be the subject and the evidence of the latter;—yet have these sciences been united by the best philosophers, and very happy effects resulted from the union.—In one and the same work, poetry, history, philosophy, and oratory, may doubtless be blended; nay, these arts have all been actually blended in one and the same work, not by Milton only, but also by Homer, Virgil, Lucan, and Shakespeare. Yet still these arts are different;—different in their ends and principles, and in the faculties of the mind to which they are respectively addressed: and it is easy to perceive, when a writer employs one, and when another.

§ 2. Of the Sound of Poetical Language.

20. As the ear, like every other perceptive faculty, is capable of gratification, regard is to be had to the sound of words, even in prose. But to the harmony of language, it behoves the poet, more than any other writer, to attend; as it is more especially his concern to render his work pleasurable. In fact, we find, that no poet was ever popular who did not possess the art of harmonious composition.

What belongs to the subject of Poetical Harmony may be referred to one or other of these heads: Sweetness, Measure, and Imitation.

I. In order to give sweetness to language, either in verse or prose, all words of harsh sound, difficult pronunciation, or unwieldy magnitude, are to be avoided as much as possible, unless when they have in the sound something peculiarly emphatical; and words are to be so placed in respect of one another, as that discordant combinations may not result from their union. But in poetry this is more necessary than in prose; poetical language being understood to be an imitation of natural language improved to that perfection which is consistent with probability. To poetry, therefore, a greater latitude must be allowed than to prose, in expressing, by tropes and figures of pleasing found, tholeideas whereof the proper names are in any respect offensive, either to the ear or to the fancy.

II. How far versification, or regular measure, may be essential to this art, has been disputed by critical writers; some holding it to be indispensably necessary, and some not necessary at all.

The fact seems to be, as already hinted, that to poetry verse is not essential. In a prose work, we may have the fable, the arrangement, and a great deal of the pathos and language, of poetry; and such a work is certainly a poem, though perhaps not a perfect one. For how absurd would it be to say, that by changing the position only of a word or two in each line, one might divest Homer's Iliad of the poetical character! At this rate, the arts of poetry and versification would be the same; and the rules in Defaucet's Grammar, and the moral dictums ascribed to Cato, would be as real poetry as any part of Virgil. In fact, some very ancient poems, when translated into a modern tongue, are far less poetical in verse than in prose; the alterations necessary to adapt them to our numbers being detrimental to their sublime simplicity; of which any person of taste will be sensible, who compares our common prose-version of Job, Of Poetical the Psalms, and the Song of Solomon, with the best metrical paraphrase of those books that has yet appeared. Nay, in many cases, Comedy will be more poetical, because more pleasing and natural, in prose, than in verse. By verifying Tom Jones and The Merry Wives of Windsor, we should spoil the two finest Comic poems, the one Epic, the other Dramatical, now in the world.

But, secondly, Though verse be not essential to poetry, it is necessary to the perfection of all poetry that admits of it. Verse is to poetry, what colours are to painting (k). A painter might display great genius, and draw masterly figures with chalk or ink; but if he intend a perfect picture, he must employ in his work as many colours as are seen in the object he imitates. Or, to adopt a beautiful comparison of Democritus, quoted by Aristotle, "Verification is to poetry what bloom is to the human countenance."

A good face is agreeable when the bloom is gone, and good poetry may please without verification; harmonious numbers may set off an indifferent poem, and a fine bloom indifferent features: but, without verse, poetry is complete; and beauty is not perfect, unless to sweetness and regularity of feature there be superadded.

The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love.

If numbers are necessary to the perfection of the higher poetry, they are no less so to that of the lower kinds, to Pastoral, Song, and Satire, which have little besides the language and versification to distinguish them from prose; and which some ancient authors are unwilling to admit to the rank of poems:—though it seems too nice a scruple, both because such writings are commonly termed poetical; and also because there is even in them, something that may not improperly be considered as an imitation of nature.

That the rhythm and measures of verse are naturally agreeable, and therefore that by these poetry may be made more pleasing than it would be without them, is evident from this, that children and illiterate people, whose admiration we cannot suppose to be the effect of habit or prejudice, are exceedingly delighted with them. In many proverbial sayings, where there is neither rhyme nor alliteration, rhythm is obviously studied. Nay, the use of rhythm in poetry is universal; whereas alliteration and rhyme, though relished by some nations, are not much sought after by others. And we need not be at a loss to account for the agreeableness of proportion and order, if we reflect, that they suggest the agreeable ideas of contrivance and skill, at the same time that they render the connection of things obvious to the understanding, and imprint it deeply on the memory. Verse, by promoting distinct and easy remembrance, conveys ideas to the mind with energy, and enlivens every emotion the poet intends to raise in the reader or hearer. Besides, when we attend to verses, after hearing one or two, we become acquainted with the measure, which therefore we always look for in the sequel. This perpetual interchange of hope and gratification is a source of delight; and to this in part is owing the pleasure we take in the rhymes of modern poetry.

And hence we see, that though an incorrect rhyme, or tuneable verse, be in itself, and compared with an important sentiment, a very trifling matter; yet it is no trifle in regard to its effects on the hearer; because it brings disappointment, and so gives a temporary shock to the mind, and interrupts the current of the affections; and because it suggests the disagreeable ideas of negligence or want of skill on the part of the author. And therefore, as the public ear becomes more delicate, the negligence will be more glaring, and the disappointment more intensely felt; and correctness of rhyme and of measure will of course be the more indispensable. In our tongue, rhyme is more necessary to Lyric than to Heroic poetry. The reason seems to be, that in the latter the ear can of itself perceive the boundary of the measure, because the lines are all of equal length nearly, and every good reader makes a short pause at the end of each; whereas, in the former, the lines vary in length: and therefore the rhyme is requisite to make the measure and rhythm sufficiently perceptible. Customs too may have some influence. English Odes without rhyme are uncommon; and therefore have something awkward about them, or something at least to which the public ear is not yet thoroughly reconciled.

Moreover, in poetry, as in music, rhythm is the source of much pleasing variety; of variety tempered with uniformity, and regulated by art: insomuch, that, notwithstanding the likeness of one hexameter verse to another, it is not common, either in Virgil or in Homer, to meet with two contiguous hexameters whose rhythm is exactly the same. And though all English heroic verses consist of five feet, among which the iambic predominates; yet this measure, in respect of rhythm alone, is susceptible of more than 30 varieties. And let it be remarked further, that different kinds of verse, by being adapted to different subjects and modes of writing, give variety to the poetic language, and multiply the charms of this pleasing art.

What has formerly been shown to be true in regard to style, will also in many cases hold true of versification, "that it is then natural, when it is adapted to the supposed condition of the speaker."—In the epopee, the poet assumes the character of calm inspiration; and therefore his language must be elevated, and his numbers majestic and uniform. A peasant speaking in heroic or hexameter verse is no improbability here; because his words are supposed to be transmitted by one who will of his own accord give them every ornament necessary to reduce them into dignified measure; as an eloquent man, in a solemn assembly, recapitulating the speech of a clown, would naturally express it in pure and perspicuous language. The uniform heroic measure will suit any subject of dignity, whether narrative or didactic, that admits or requires uniformity of style. In tragedy, where the imitation of real life is more perfect than in epic poetry, the uniform magnificence of epic numbers might be improper; because the heroes and heroines are supposed to speak in their own

(k) Horace seems to hint at the same comparison, when, after specifying the several sorts of verse suitable to Epic, Elegiac, Lyric, and Dramatic Poetry, he adds,

Deficritas fervare vices, operumque colores. Cur ego, si nequoque ignoroque, Poeta falutor?

Ars. Poet. vers. 86. Of Poetical own persons, and according to the immediate impulse Harmony, of passion and sentiment. Yet, even in tragedy, the verification may be both harmonious and dignified; be- cause the characters are taken chiefly from high life, and the events from a remote period; and because the higher poetry is permitted to imitate nature, not as it is, but in that state of perfection in which it might be. The Greeks and Romans considered their hexameter as too artificial for dramatic poetry; and therefore in tragedy, and even in comedy, made use of the iambic, and some other measures that came near the cadence of conversation: we use the iambic both in the epic and dramatic poem; but for the most part it is, or ought to be, much more elaborate in the former than in the latter. In dramatic comedy, where the manners and concerns of familiar life are exhibited, verse would seem to be unnatural, except it be so like the sound of common discourse, as to be hardly distinguishable from it. Custom, however, may in some countries deter- mine otherwise; and against custom, in these matters, it is vain to argue. The professed enthusiasm of the dithyrambic poet renders wildness, variety, and a so- phisticated harmony of numbers, peculiarly suitable to his odes. The love-sonnet, and Anacreontic song, will be less various, more regular, and of a softer harmo- ny; because the state of mind expressed in it has more composure. Philosophy can scarce go further in this investigation, without deviating into whims and hypo- thesis. The particular sorts of verse to be adopted in the lower species of poetry, are determined by fashion chiefly, and the practice of approved authors.

III. The origin and principles of imitative harmony, or of that artifice by which the sound is made, as Pope says, "an echo to the sense," may be explained in the following manner.

It is pleasing to observe the uniformity of nature in all her operations. Between moral and material beauty and harmony, between moral and material deformi- ty and dissonance, there obtains a very striking ana- logy. The visible and audible expressions of almost every virtuous emotion are agreeable to the eye and the ear, and those of almost every criminal passion dif- ferent. The looks, the attitudes, and the vocal sounds, natural to benevolence, to gratitude, to com- passion, to piety, are in themselves graceful and plea- sing; while anger, discontent, despair, and cruelty, bring discord to the voice, deformity to the features, and distortion to the limbs. That flowing curve, which painters know to be essential to the beauty of animal shape, gives place to a multiplicity of right lines and sharp angles in the countenance and gesture of him who knits his brows, stretches his nostrils, grinds his teeth, and clenches his fist; whereas devo- tion, magnanimity, benevolence, contentment, and good-humour, soften the attitude, and give a more graceful swell to the outline of every feature. Certain vocal tones accompany certain mental emotions. The voice of sorrow is feeble and broken, that of despair boisterous and incoherent; joy assumes a sweet and sprightly note, fear a weak and tremulous cadence; the tones of love and benevolence are musical and uni- form, those of rage loud and dissonant; the voice of the sedate reasoner is equable and grave, but not un- pleasant; and he who declaims with energy, employs many varieties of modulation suited to the various emo-

tions that predominate in his discourse.

But it is not in the language of passion only, that the human voice varies its tone, or the human face its features. Every striking sentiment, and every inter- esting idea, has an effect upon it. One would esteem that person no adept in narrative eloquence, who should describe with the very same accent, twist and flow motion, extreme labour and easy performance, agreeable sensation and excruciating pain; who should talk of the tumult of a tempestuous ocean, the roar of thunder, the devastations of an earthquake, or an Egyptian pyramid tumbling into ruins, in the same tone of voice wherewith he describes the murmur of a rill, the warbling of the harp of Eolus, the swinging of a cradle, or the descent of an angel. Elevation of mind gives dignity to the voice. From Achilles, Sar- pedon, and Othello, we should as naturally expect a manly and sonorous accent, as a nervous style and ma- jestic attitude. Coxcombs and bullies, while they as- sume airs of importance and valour, affect also a dig- nified articulation.

Since the tones of natural language are so various, poetry, which imitates the language of nature, must also vary its tones; and, in respect of sound as well as of meaning, be framed after that model of ideal per- fection, which the variety and energy of the human articulate voice render probable. This is the more easily accomplished, because, in every language, there is between the sound and sense of certain words a per- ceptible analogy; which, though not so accurate as to lead a foreigner from the sound to the signification, is yet accurate enough to show, that, in forming such words, regard has been had to the imitative qualities of vocal sound. Such, in English, are the words yell, crash, crack, hiss, roar, murmur, and many others.

All the particular laws that regulate this sort of imitation, as far as they are founded in nature, and liable to the cognizance of philosophy, depend on the general law of style above-mentioned. Together with the other circumstances of the supposed speaker, the poet takes into consideration the tone of voice suitable to the ideas that occupy his mind, and thereto adopts the sound of his language, if it can be done consist- ently with ease and elegance of expression. But when this imitative harmony is too much sought after, or words appear to be chosen for sound rather than sense, the verse becomes finical and ridiculous. Such is Ron- fard's affected imitation of the song of the sky-lark:

Elle quintées du zephyre Sublime en l'air vire et revire, Et y déclique un joli cris, Qui rit, guérit, et tire l'ire Des esprit mieux que je n'écris.

This is as ridiculous as that line of Ennius,

Tum tuba terribili sonitu taratatara dixit: Or as the following verses of Swift;

The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate, Dub dub a dub dub: the trumpeters follow, Tantara tantara; while all the boys hollow.

Words by their sound may imitate sound; and quick or slow articulation may imitate quick or slow motion. Hence, by a proper choice and arrangement of words, Poetry

Of poetical the poet may imitate, Sounds that are sweet with dignity (r), —sweet and tender (g), —loud (h), —and harsh (i);—and Motions that are, slow in consequence of dignity (k),—flow in consequence of difficulty (l), swift and noisy (m),—swift and smooth (n),—uneven and abrupt (o),—quick and joyous (p). An unexpected pause in the verse may also imitate a sudden failure of strength (q.), or interruption of motion (r), or give vivacity to an image or thought, by fixing our attention longer than usual upon the word that precedes it (s).—Moreover, when we describe great bulk, it is natural for us to articulate slowly even in common discourse; and therefore a line of poetry that requires a slow pronunciation, or seems longer than it should be, may be used with good effect in describing vastness of size (t).—Sweet and smooth numbers are most proper, when the poet paints agreeable objects, or gentle energy (u); and harsher sounds when he speaks of

(f) No sooner had th' Almighty ceas'd, than all The multitude of angels, with a shout Loud as from numbers without number, sweet As from blest voices uttering joy; heav'n rung With jubilee, and loud hosannas fill'd The eternal regions.—Par. Loft, b. 3.

See also the night-form of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, in Virg. Georg. lib. i. verf. 328.—334.

(g) Et longum, formosè, vale, vale, inquit, Iola. Virg. Ecl. i.

Formosam resonare doces Amarillida flivas. Virg. Ecl. i.

See also the simile of the nightingale, Geor. lib. 4. verf. 511. And see that wonderful couplet describing the wailings of the owl, Æneid. IV. 462.

(h) vibratas ab ætheræ fulgor Cum sonitu venit, et ruere omnia via repente, Tyrrenusque tubæ mugire per æthera clangor; Sulpiciunt: iterum atque iterum fragor intonant ingenis. Æneid. 8.

See also the storm in the first book of the Æneid, and in the fifth of the Odyssey.

(i) The hoarse rough verse shall like the torrent roar. Pope.

On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring found, The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.—Par. Loft, II. 879.

See also Homer's Iliad, lib. 2. ver. 363. and Clarke's annotation.

(k) See an exquisite example in Gray's Progres of Poety; the conclusion of the third stanza.

(l) And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your thighs, Pope.

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could flir. Pope.

The huge leviathan Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait, Tempest the ocean.—Par. Loft, VII. 411.

See the famous description of Sisyphus rolling the stone, Odyss. lib. ii. verf. 592. See Quintil. Inst. Orat. lib. 9. cap. 4. § 4. compared with Paradise Loft, book 2. verf. 1022.

(m) Quadrupedanteputrem sonitu quattungula campum. Æneid.

See also Virg. Æneid. lib. i. verf. 83.—87.

(n) See wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies. Pope.

Ille volat, simul arva fuga, simul æquora verrens. Virg.

Πολλὰ δ' ἀνάρτη τεκτονικὰ παγέτων τε δόξας τ' ἐκλέκτων. Hom.

The last shriek'd, started up, and shriek'd again. Anonym.

(p) Let the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound, To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade. Milton's Allegro:

See also Gray's Progres of Poety, stanza 3.

(q) Ac velut in somnis oculis ubi languida pressit Nocte quies, nequiquam avidos extendere cursus Velle videmur:—et in mediis conatibus ægri Succidimus.— Æneid.

See also Virg. Georg. lib. 3. verf. 515. 516.

(r) For this, be sure to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall exercise upon thee.—Prospero to Caliban in the Tempest.

See Pope's Iliad, XIII. 199.

(s) How often from the sleep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices, to the midnight air, Sole,—or responsive to each other's note, Singing their great Creator?—Par. Loft, b. 4.

And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook,—but delay'd to strike. Id.

See also Hom. Odyss. l. 9. v. 290.

(t) Thus stretch'd out, huge in length, the arch fiend lay. Par. Loft.

Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum. Æneid. 3.

Et magnos membrorum artus, magna osa, lacertosque Exuit, atque ingens media conficit arena. Æneid. v. 422.

(u) Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori, Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerent ævo. Virg. Ecl. io.

The dumb shall sing; the lame his crutch forego, And leap, exulting, like the bounding roe. Pope's Messiah.

See Milton's description of the evening, Par. Loft, book 4. verf. 598.—609.

Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow, And softly lay me on the waves below. Pope's Sappho. Of what is ugly, violent, or disagreeable (x). This Epopoe too is according to the nature of common language; Drama. for we generally employ harsher tones of voice to express what we dislike, and more melodious notes to describe the objects of love, complacency, or admiration. Harsh numbers, however, should not be frequent in poetry. For in this art, as in music, concord and melody ought always to predominate. And we find in fact, that good poets can occasionally express themselves somewhat harshly, when the subject requires it, and yet preserve the sweetness and majesty of poetical diction.—Further, the voice of complaint, pity, love, and all the gentler affections, is mild and musical, and should therefore be imitated in musical numbers; while despair, defiance, revenge, and turbulent emotions in general, assume an abrupt and sonorous cadence. Dignity of description (y), solemn vows (z), and all sentiments that proceed from a mind elevated with great ideas (a), require a correspondent pomp of language and versification.—Lastly, an irregular or uncommon movement in the verse, may sometimes be of use, to make the reader conceive an image in a particular manner. Virgil, describing horses running over rocky heights at full speed, begins the line with two dactyls, to imitate rapidity, and concludes it with eight long syllables:

Saxa per, et scopulos, et depressas convalles.

Geor. III. 276.

which is a very unusual measure, but seems well adapted to the thing expressed, namely, to the descent of the animal from the hills to the low ground. At any rate, this extraordinary change of the rhythm may be allowed to bear some resemblance to the animal's change of motion, as it would be felt by a rider, and as we may suppose it is felt by the animal itself.

Other forms of imitative harmony, and many other examples, besides those referred to in the margin, will readily occur to all who are conversant in the writings of the best versifiers, particularly Homer, Virgil, Milton, Lucretius, Spenser, Dryden, Shakespeare, Pope, and Gray.

PART II. OF THE DIFFERENT SPECIES OF POETRY, with their PARTICULAR PRINCIPLES.

SECT. I. Of Epic and Dramatic Compositions.

§ 1. The Epopoe and Drama compared.

Tragedy and the epic differ not in substantial things in both the same ends are proposed, viz. instruction and amusement; and in both the same mean is employed, viz. imitation of human actions. They differ only in the manner of imitating: epic poetry employs narration; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our sight: in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian; in the latter, he presents his actors, and never himself.

This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight: but the effects it occasions, are by no means so; for what we see makes a deeper impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.

A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of action; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than narration: in the former, persons express their own sentiments; in the latter, sentiments are related at second-hand. For that reason, Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule*, That in an epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity of introducing his actors, and of confining the narrative part within the narrowest bounds. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme: and is guilty of a still greater fault, in stuffing his Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections, the merit of which he assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his actors. Nothing can be more injudiciously timed, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage†.

Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and complex: but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of pathetic: but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated moral. Besides making a deeper impression than can be done by cool reasoning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording conviction: the natural connection of vice with misery, and of virtue with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths: That discord among

(x) Stridenti stipula miserum disperdere carmen. Virg. Ecl. 3. Immo ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis, Horridior ruco, projecta vilius alga. Virg. Ecl. 7. Neu patriae validas in viscera vertite vires. Virg. Æneid. 6.

See also Milton's description of the Lazar-house in Paradise Lost, b. 11. v. 477—492.

(y) See Virg. Geor. I. 328. and Homer, Virgil, and Milton, pathos. See also Dryden's Alexander's Feast, and Gray's Odes.

(z) See Virg. Æneid. IV. 24.

(a) Examples are frequent in the great authors. See Othello's exclamation:

O now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! &c;

AG 3. among the chiefs renders ineffectual all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grovelling injury: these truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. If facts or circumstances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbulent passions, they must be invented; but no accidental nor unaccountable event ought to be admitted; for the necessary or probable connection between vice and misery is not learned from any events but what are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the persons represented, acting in such circumstances. A real event of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson, upon the presumption that what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be a fiction.

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what is wrong. Its frequent pictures of human woes, produce, beside, two effects extremely salutary: they improve our sympathy, and fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good effects, because by being moral it ceaseth not to be pathetic: it enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself; for it not only improves the heart, as above-mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it contains. It seems impossible to imagine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of this kind has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections: our curiosity in some scenes is excited, in others gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every incident down to the final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects.

Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are the same in substance, and have the same aim or end, one will readily imagine, that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the other. But considering their difference as to form, there will be found reason to correct that conjecture, at least in some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form: but the subjects are still more numerous for which they are not equally qualified; and there are subjects proper for the one, and not at all for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, we observe, that dialogue is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and other elevated virtues, figure best in action; tender passions, and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry.

22. We have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, it is necessary to take a narrower view of them; which we do the more willingly, in order to clear a point thrown into great obscurity by critics.

The subject best fitted for tragedy is where a man has himself been the cause of his misfortune; not so as to be deeply guilty, nor altogether innocent: the misfortune must be occasioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore in some degree venial. Such misfortunes call forth the social affections, and warmly interest the spectator. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity: the person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind which is occasioned by remorse. An atrocious criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a different reason: his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity; but then our hatred of him as a criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent, nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and the flight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. The happiest of all subjects accordingly for raising pity, is where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is innocent, but which, by some singular means, is conceived by him to be criminal: his remorse aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by indignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and, by proper representation, may be raised to a height scarce exceeded by anything felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; as it not only exercises our pity, but raises another passion, which, though selfish, deserves to be cherished equally with the social affection. The passion we have in view is fear or terror; for when a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious of such a bias in himself, takes the alarm, and dreads his falling into the same misfortune: and by the emotion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.

The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been much graveled about the account given of tragedy by that author: "That by means of pity and terror, it refines or purifies in several sorts of passion." But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Aristotle's meaning: Our pity is engaged for the persons represented; and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in what manner our other passions are refined by terror, has been just now said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really Aristotle's Aristotle's meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers several propositions conformable to the doctrine as here explained. These, at the same time, we take liberty to mention; because, so far as authority can go, they confirm the forgoing reasoning about subjects proper for tragedy. The first proposition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of that nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The second proposition is, That the history of a wicked person in a change from misery to happiness, ought not to be represented; which excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented: such representation may be agreeable in some measure upon a principle of justice; but it will not move our pity; nor any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented. The last proposition is, That the only character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author expresses it. The only objection we find to Aristotle's account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refusing admittance to the pathetic kind; for if terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name but the moral kind, where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution: such misfortunes always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only, can terror be excited for our improvement.

Thus Aristotle's four propositions above-mentioned, relates solely to tragedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind, are not confined within so narrow limits: subjects fitted for the theatre, are not in such plenty as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect indeed to the subjects of that kind, it may be doubted, whether the conclusion ought not always to be fortunate. Where a person of integrity is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice: for seldom is man so submissive to Providence, as not to revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance; he will be tempted to say, This ought not to be. We give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakespeare, where the fatal catastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the monument a minute too late: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, which ought not to be cherished, are a sufficient reason for excluding stories of this kind from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising from necessary causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, will be considered in a different light. Chance, giving an impression of anarchy and misrule, produces always a gloomy prospect: on the contrary, a regular chain of causes and effects directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand of Providence; to which we submit without resentment, being conscious that submission is our duty. For that reason, we are not disgusted with the distresses of Voltaire's Mariamne, though redoubled on her till her death, without the least fault or failing on her part: her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of Desdemona in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King Lear: the causes of her misfortune are by no means so evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, a perfect character suffering under misfortunes, is qualified for being the subject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is a perfect character altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy: it may successfully be introduced as an under-part, if the chief place be filled with an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne just mentioned; and it is the case of Ophelia and Belvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, The Orphan and Venice Preserved.

According to our author *, fable operates on our *Ld Kames, passions, by representing its events as passing in our Elem. of sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality. Crit. ch. ii. Hence, in epic and dramatic compositions, every circumstance ought to be employed that may promote the delusion; such as the borrowing from history some noted event, with the addition of circumstances that may answer the author's purpose: the principal facts are known to be true; and we are disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in choosing a subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter case there is full scope for invention: the author is under no restraint other than that the characters and incidents be just copies of nature. But where the story is founded on truth, no circumstances must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be true; history may be supplied, but must not be contradicted. Further, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at least in place; for the familiarity of recent persons and events ought to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation: modern manners make but a poor figure in such a poem. Their familiarity unqualifies them for a lofty subject. The dignity of them will be better understood in future ages, when they are no longer familiar.

After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an event of that kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy: it was admitted in Greece; and Shakespeare has employed it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home: familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners.

After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect cloises that contribute to the melody. Every act in a dramatic poem ought therefore to close with some incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no pretext for interrupting the representation. It would be absurd to break off in the very heat of action; against which every one would exclaim: the absurdity still remains where the action relents, if it be not actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an epic poem; though in it a deviation from the rule is less remarkable; because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Paradise Lost ends without any close, perfect or imperfect; it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to harangue the convocated host of the fallen angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the Æneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad little attention is given to this rule.

This branch of the subject shall be closed with a general rule, That action being the fundamental part of every composition, whether epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be subservient to the action, so as to appear natural, and proper for the occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, would reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton.

§ 2. Reflective peculiarities of the Epopee and Drama.

23. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to introduce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is no place for such objection in an epic poem; and Boileau, with many other critics, declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgment, let us draw what light we can from reason. We may in the first place observe, that this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics: the poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a description, is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle; but nothing is more unnatural than the latter. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our passions: which of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagination. And, next, were it possible, by disguising the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, an insuperable objection would still remain, which is, that the aim or end of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection where machinery is introduced; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endowed with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions: and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise; they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable; but the religion of his country authorised that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. It must however be observed, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect; they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. They may be of some use to the lower rank of writers; but an author of genius has much finer materials of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.

One would be apt to think, that Boileau, declaring for the Heathen deities, intended them only for embellishing the diction: but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who undoubtedly make a figure in poetic language, equal to the Heathen deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition to the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that the Heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity, where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem: In his ode upon the taking of Namur, he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune: and in relating the passage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he describes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch; which is confounding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general run into this error: wonderful the effect of custom, entirely to hide from them how ridiculous such fictions are!

That this is a capital error in Gierufalennme liberata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge: a situation can never be intricate, nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, so long as there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, observes judiciously, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the fidelity of Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and superfluous rior beings, introduces them into the action: in the sixth canto of the Henriade, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to Henry; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c., assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are driven away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. But perfection is not the lot of man.

But perhaps the most successful weapon that can be employed upon this subject is ridicule. Addison has applied this in an elegant manner: "Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend to shew their talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense which we have good cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the Muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of Mercury with any particular message or dispatch relating to the peace; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that I shall not allow the Deities to have had a hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in the late war; being of opinion that all such deaths may be well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the Fates to cut the thread of man's life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion; and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short, I expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written."

Spec. no 523.

The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer introduceth his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has still less moderation: a pilot spent with watching cannot fall asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: one bed cannot receive the two lovers Æneas and Dido, without the immediate interposition of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must appear even thro' the thickest veil of gravity and solemnity.

Angels and devils serve equally with Heathen deities as materials for figurative language; perhaps better among Christians, because we believe in them, and not in Heathen deities. But every one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than the invisible powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems; the cause of which is not far to seek. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only above mankind, subject to the same passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men in an important action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, that with no propriety can we appear with them upon the same stage: man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the comparison.

There can be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the embellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical manner: it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, metamorphosed into active beings; and it is delightful to trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and never be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the catastrophe; which would have a still worse effect than invisible powers. For the impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can more effectually prevent the impression of reality, than the introduction of allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love-episode in the Henriade (canto 9.) inoffensive by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life, is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida, in the Gerusalemme liberata, which hath no merit to entitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the Æneid, and the temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description: but to introduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the affluence of Love as another real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble of truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and Death in the Paradise Lost, is possibly not generally relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what we have been condemning: in a work comprehending the achievements of superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined to human actions.

What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished from the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, "An incident con- connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to advance nor retard it." The descent of Aeneas into hell doth not advance nor retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nissus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family-scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same nature; for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode according to this definition must be, to break the unity of action; and therefore it ought never to be indulged unless to unbend the mind after the fatigue of a long narration. An episode, when such is its purpose, requires the following conditions: it ought to be well connected with the principal action; it ought to be lively and interesting; it ought to be short; and a time ought to be chosen when the principal action relents (k).

In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book of Fingal, all these conditions are united.

"Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of an hundred hills. His deer drunk of a thousand streams; and a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth; but his hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she! the daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sun-beam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her soul was fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chase. Often met their eyes of love, and happy were their words in secret. But Gormal loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal.

"One day tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms; a hundred shields of thongs were there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina, thou light of the cave of Ronan: a deer appears on Maro's brow; I go, but soon will return. I fear, said she, dark Gormal my foe: I will rest here; but soon return, my love.

"He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his love, cloathed her white side with his armour, and strode from the cave of Ronan. Thinking her his foe, his heart beat high, and his colour changed. He drew the bow: the arrow flew: Galvina fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love? but no answer.—He marked, at length, her heaving heart beating against the mortal arrow. O Conloch's daughter, is it thou! he sunk upon her breast.

"The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his steps round the dark dwellings of his love. The fleet of the ocean came: he fought, and the strangers fell: he searched for death over the field; but who could kill the mighty Comal? Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. He sleeps with his Galvina: their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when he bounds on the waves of the north."

24. Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first we shall mention is a double plot: one of which must resemble an episode in an epic poem; for it would distract the spectator, instead of entertaining him, if he were forced to attend, at the same time, to two capital plots equally interesting. And even supposing it an under-plot like an episode, it seldom hath a good effect in tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief property; for an interesting subject that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tolerable in comedy; which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even then, to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: the under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from the principal; for discordant emotions are unpleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to tragi-comedy. Upon that account, the Provok'd Husband deserves censure: all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone from the principal scenes, displaying fevere and bitter expostulations between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husband; the different subjects being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously mixed. But this is not all. The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is principal, so much at least as to employ the same persons: the under-plot ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal action; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry Wives of Windsor.

Violent action ought never to be represented on the stage. While the dialogue goes on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us into an impression of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture: the spectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state, he is roused by violent action: he wakes as from a pleasing dream, and, gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and founds it upon the same reason:

Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet; Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus; Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem: Quodcumque ostendis mihi fic, incredulus odi.

The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the stage; but, overlooking the most substantial objection, they urge only, that it is barbarous and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks had no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles; her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being stabbed, and then a deep silence. An appeal may be made to every person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible, than if the deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and his sister, upon which the murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed.

Spektor's observation is just*, That no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero.

25. A few words upon the dialogue, which ought to be so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. We talk not here of the sentiments, nor of the language, (which are treated elsewhere): but of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of the scene. In this view, all the speeches, from first to last, represent so many links of one regular chain. No author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakespeare. Dryden, in that particular, may justly be placed as his opposite. He frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each throwing out his own notions separately, without regarding what is said by the rest: take for an example the first scene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the sake merely of speaking: of which notable sort of dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob: a dialogue to uncouth, puts one in mind of two shepherds in a pastoral, excited by a prize to pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of his own mistress.

This manner of dialogue-writing, beside an unnatural air, has another bad effect: it stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often suspended to make way for a play of wit.

No fault is more common among writers, than to prolong a speech after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in violent action without interrupting, would be unnatural; and yet to dissemble his impatience by appearing cool where he ought to be highly inflamed, would be no less so.

Rhyme being unnatural and disagreeable in dialogue, is happily banished from our theatre: the only wonder is that it ever found admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly freedom of Shakespeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have gained so much as never once to dream that there can be any further improvement. And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the mouths of the lower sort. Why then should it be a rule, That every scene in tragedy must be in blank verse? Sakepear, with great judgment, has followed a different rule; which is, to intermix prose with verse, and only to employ the latter where it is required by the importance or dignity of the subject. Familiar thoughts and ordinary facts ought to be expressed in plain language: to hear, for example, a footman deliver a simple message in blank verse, must appear ridiculous to every one who is not biased by custom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.

§ 3. The Three Unities.

26. When we consider the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of purpose, design, or thought, we find a number of incidents in succession, without beginning, middle, or end: everything that happens is both a cause and an effect; being the effect of what goes before, and the cause of what follows: one incident may affect us more, another less; but all of them are links in the universal chain: the mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot rest or settle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the train without any close.

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice: he aims at some end; glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country in general: he proposes means, and lays plans to attain the end propounded. Here are a number of facts or incidents leading to the end in view, the whole composing one chain by the relation of cause and effect. In running over a series of such facts or incidents, we cannot rest upon any one; because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some end: but we rest with satisfaction upon the end or ultimate event; because there the purpose or aim of the chief person or persons is accomplished. This indicates the beginning, the middle, and the end, of what Aristotle calls an entire action*. The story naturally begins with describing those circumstances which move the person who acts the principal part to form a plan, in order to compass some desired event; the prosecution of that plan and the obstructions, carry the reader into the heat of action: the middle is properly where the action is the most involved; and the end is where the event is brought about, and the plan accomplished.

We have given the foregoing example of a plan crowned with success, because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle, and an end, in which consists unity of action; and indeed stricter unity cannot be imagined than in that case. But an action may have... The three have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a relation of parts; as where the catastrophe is different from what it is intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies. In the *Enée*, the hero, after many obstructions, makes his plan effectual. The *Iliad* is formed upon a different model: it begins with the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon; goes on to describe the several effects produced by that cause; and ends in a reconciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and an end; but inferior to that of the *Enée*: which will thus appear. The mind hath a propensity to go forward in the chain of history; it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the incidents or under-parts are connected by their relation to the event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure we have in the *Enée*. It is not altogether so pleasant to connect, as in the *Iliad*, effects by their common cause; for such connection forces the mind to a continual retrospect: looking backward is like walking backward.

If unity of action be a capital beauty in fable imitative of human affairs, a plurality of unconnected fables must be a capital deformity. For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that is connected with the principal: but two unconnected events are extremely unpleasant, even where the same actors are engaged in both. Ariosto is quite licentious in that particular: he carries on at the same time a plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is perfectly well adjusted to his subject; for everything in the *Orlando Furioso* is wild and extravagant.

Though to state facts in the order of time is natural, yet that order may be varied for the sake of conspicuous beauties. If, for example, a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements, be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of action; referring the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if thought necessary; and that method, at the same time, hath a peculiar beauty from being dramatic. But a privilege that deviates from nature ought to be sparingly indulged; and yet romance-writers make no difficulty of presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally unknown. In *Caffandria*, two personages, who afterward are discovered to be the heroes of the fable, start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a single combat.

A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding it. A scene that produces no incident, and for that reason may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, because it breaks the unity of action: a barren scene can never be entitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. In the *Old Bachelor*, the 3d scene of act 2, and all that follow to the end of that act, are mere conversation-pieces, productive of no consequence. The 10th and 11th scenes, act 3. Double Dealer, and the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th scenes, act 1. Love for Love, are of the same kind. Neither is *The Way of the World* entirely guiltless of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to display characters: it were better, like Dryden in his *dramatis persona*, to describe characters beforehand, which would not break the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such artifice: he can display the characters of his personages much more to the life in sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by Shakespeare! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren scene.

Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable, ought to have a mutual connection, by their common relation to the grand event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the unity of action consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic compositions.

In handling unity of action, it ought not to escape observation, that the mind is satisfied with slighter unity in a picture than in a poem; because the perceptions of the former are more lively than the ideas of the latter. In Hogarth's *Enraged Musician*, we have a collection of every grating found in nature, without any mutual connection except that of place. But the horror they give to the delicate ear of an Italian fiddler, who is represented almost in convulsions, bestows unity upon the piece, with which the mind is satisfied.

How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a question of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in the Greek and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and English critics, as essential to every dramatic composition. In theory, these unities are also acknowledged by our best poets, though their practice seldom corresponds: they are often forced to take liberties, which they pretend not to justify, against the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and against the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in the course of this inquiry it will be made evident, that in this article we are under no necessity to copy the ancients; and that our critics are guilty of a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than was admitted in Greece and Rome.

Indeed the unities of place and time, are not, by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be absurd; because real events are seldom confined within narrow limits either of place or of time: and yet we can follow history, or an historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest facility: we never once think of measuring the real time by what is taken in reading; nor of forming any connection between the place of action and that which we occupy.

We are aware, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to admit different rules. It will be observed, "That an historical fable, intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time nor of place, more than a genuine history; but that a dramatic composition cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as its representation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore that no fable can be admitted but what has these properties, because it would be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be justly represented." This argument has at least a plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the unities of place and of time within so narrow A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our own, may perhaps relieve us from this dilemma: if they be differently constructed, as shall be made evident, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning may not be equally applicable to both. This is an article, that, with relation to the present subject, has not been examined by any writer.

All authors agree, that tragedy in Greece was derived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by a chorus. Thepis, to relieve the singers, and for the sake of variety, introduced one actor; whose province it was to explain historically the subject of the song, and who occasionally represented one or other personage. Eschylus, introducing a second actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic; and the actors were multiplied when the subject represented made it necessary. But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered as an essential part. The first scene, generally, unfolds the preliminary circumstances that lead to the grand event; and this scene is by Aristotle termed the prologue. In the second scene, where the action properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as originally, continues upon the stage during the whole performance: the chorus frequently makes one in the dialogue; and when the dialogue happens to be suspended, the chorus, during the interval, is employed in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides is not altogether to correct. In some of his pieces it becomes necessary to remove the chorus for a little time: but when that unusual step is risked, matters are so ordered as not to interrupt the representation: the chorus never leave the stage of their own accord, but at the command of some principal personage, who constantly waits their return.

Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without any interruption; a circumstance that merits attention. A continued representation without a pause, affords not opportunity to vary the place of action, nor to prolong the time of the action beyond that of the representation. To a representation so confined in place and time, the foregoing reasoning is strictly applicable: a real or feigned action that is brought to a conclusion after considerable intervals of time and frequent changes of place, cannot accurately be copied in a representation that admits no latitude in either. Hence it is, that the unities of place and of time were in Greece, as we see, a matter of necessity, not of choice; and it is easy to show, that if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, not necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitution of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less perfect, is a different point, to be handled afterward. By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to divide the representation by intervals of time, during which the stage is evacuated and the spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of place: the time supposed to pass during the suspension of the representation, is not measured by the time of the suspension; and any place may be supposed, as it is not in sight: by which means, many subjects can justly be represented in our theatres, that were excluded from those of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures; let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be complete: each of the pictures resembles an act in one of our plays: there must necessarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in each picture; and the same necessity requires these two unities during each act of a play, because during an act there is no interruption in the spectacle. Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed between the events exhibited in two different pictures, though the interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the other; and we have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, however great; in which view, there is truly no difference between five acts of a modern play, and five such pictures. Where the representation is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any length of time or any change of place: the spectator, it is true, may be conscious, that the real time and place are not the same with what are employed in the representation; but this is a work of reflection; and by the same reflection he may also be conscious, that Garrick is not king Lear, that the playhouse is not Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a word, after an interruption of the representation, it is not more difficult for a spectator to imagine a new place, or a different time, than, at the commencement of the play, to imagine himself at Rome, or in a period of time two thousand years back. And indeed, it is abundantly ridiculous, that a critic, who is willing to hold candle-light for fun-shine, and some painted canvases for a palace or a prison, should affect so much difficulty in imagining a latitude of place or of time in the fable, beyond what is necessary in the representation.

There are, it must be acknowledged, some effects of great latitude in time that ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre: nothing can be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full-grown person who appears a child at the beginning: the mind rejects, as contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a change so remarkable. The greatest change from place to place hath not altogether the same bad effect: in the bulk of human affairs place is not material; and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, is little regardful of minute circumstances: these may be varied at will, because they scarce make any impression.

At the same time, it is not here meant to justify liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to place and time, is faulty for a reason that seems to have been overlooked, which is, that it seldom fails to break the unity of action: in the ordinary course of human affairs, single events, such as are fit to be represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and generally employ no great extent of The three of time: we accordingly seldom find strict unity of action in a dramatic composition, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in these particulars. It may even be admitted, that a composition which employs but one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is so much the more perfect; because the confining an event within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action, and also prevents that labour, however slight, which the mind must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place, and many intervals of time. But still we must insist, that such limitation of place and time as was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and therefore, that though such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition, it is at best but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand beauties more substantial. And we may add, that it is extremely difficult, if not impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion.

It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and of time upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them all equally essential, have not attended to the nature and constitution of the modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation, with which no writer finds fault, it is absurd to reject its greatest advantage, that of representing many interesting subjects excluded from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation, why not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action? There is certainly no medium; for to admit an interruption without relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to load us with all the inconveniences of the ancient drama, and at the same time to withhold from us its advantages.

And therefore the only proper question is, Whether our model be or be not a real improvement? This indeed may fairly be called in question; and in order to a comparative trial, some particulars must be premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to adjust our imagination to the scene of action, however distant it be in time or in place; because we know that the play is a representation only. The case is very different after we are engaged: it is the perfection of representation to hide itself, to impose on the spectators, and to produce in him an impression of reality, as if he were spectator of a real event; but any interruption annihilates that impression, by rousing him out of his waking dream, and unhappily restoring him to his senses. So difficult it is to support the impression of reality, that much slighter interruptions than the interval between two acts are sufficient to dissolve the charm: in the fifth act of the Mourning Bride, the three first scenes are in a room of state, the fourth in a prison; and the change is operated by shifting the scene, which is done in a trice; but however quick the transition may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators so as to make them conceive that they are actually carried from the palace to the prison; they immediately reflect, that the palace and prison are imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.

From these premises, one will naturally be led, at first view, to pronounce the frequent interruptions in the modern drama to be an imperfection. It will occur, "That every interruption must have the effect to banish the dream of reality, and with it to banish our concern, which cannot subsist while we are conscious that all is a fiction; and therefore, that in the modern drama, sufficient time is not afforded for fluctuation and swelling of passion, like what is afforded in that of Greece, where there is no interruption." This reasoning, it must be owned, has a specious appearance: but we must not become faint-hearted upon the first repulse; let us rally our troops for a second engagement.

Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended not less frequently than in the modern drama: there are five acts in each; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the action is suspended as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it appears, that the Grecian continuity of representation cannot have the effect to prolong the impression of reality: to banish that impression, a pause in the action while the chorus is employed in singing, is no less effectual than a total suspension of the representation.

But to open a larger view, it may be shown, that a representation with proper pauses, is better qualified for making a deep impression, than a continued representation without a pause. This will be evident from the following considerations. Representation cannot very long support an impression of reality; for when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and, by the agitation of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish the waking dream. Now supposing the time that a man can employ with strict attention without wandering, to be no greater than is requisite for a single act, a supposition that cannot be far from truth; it follows, that a continued representation of longer endurance than an act, instead of giving scope to fluctuation and swelling of passion, would overstrain the attention, and produce a total absence of mind. In this respect, the four pauses have a fine effect; for by affording to the audience a reasonable respite when the impression of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue; and consequently prevent a wandering of thought at the very time possibly of the most interesting scenes.

In one article, indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advantage: its chorus, during an interval, not only preserves alive the impressions made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts finely for new impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the audience, at the end of every act, being left to trifle time away, lose every warm impression; and they begin the next act cool and unconcerned, as at the commencement of the representation. This is a gross malady in our theatrical representations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable: to revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian slavery of place and time; but we can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pause in the representation, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie against music between the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted ed to the subject? Such detached chorus, without putting us under any limitation of time or place, would recruit the spirits, and would preserve entire the tone, if not the tide, of passion: the music, after an act, should commence in the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act. The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by their conjunction; which will thus appear.

Music that accords with the present tone of mind, is, on that account, doubly agreeable; and accordingly, though music singly hath not power to raise a passion, it tends greatly to support a passion already raised. Further, music prepares us for the passion that follows, by making cheerful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, as the subject requires. Take for an example the first scene of the Mourning Bride, where soft music, in a melancholy strain, prepares us for Almeria's deep distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other delightfully: the impression made upon the audience by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds; and the impression made by the music, is a fine preparation for the representation that succeeds. It appears evident, that by some such contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, so as to enjoy the advantage of the ancient chorus without its flimsy limitation of place and time. But to return to the comparison between the ancient and the modern drama.

The numberless improprieties forced upon the Greek dramatic poets by the constitution of their drama, may be sufficient, one should think, to make us prefer the modern drama, even abstracting from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this article, it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place of action never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen, to which every person may have access without any improbability. This confines the scene to some open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which excludes from the Grecian theatre transactions within doors, though these commonly are the most important. Such cruel restraint is of itself sufficient to cramp the most pregnant invention; and accordingly the Greek writers, in order to preserve unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, (act i. sc. 6.) Phaedra, distressed in mind and body, is carried without any pretext from her palace to the place of action; is there laid upon a couch, unable to support herself upon her limbs; and made to utter many things improper to be heard by a number of women who form the chorus: and what is still more improper, her female attendant uses the strongest intreacies to make her reveal the secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phaedra, contrary to decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of that very chorus, (act 2. sc. 2.) Alcestes, in Euripides, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning, and lamenting her untimely fate (act 2. sc. 1.) In the Trachinides of Sophocles, (act 2.), a secret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in presence of the chorus. In the tragedy of Iphigenia, the messenger employed to inform Clitemnestra that Iphigenia was sacrificed, stops short at the place of action, and with a loud voice calls the queen from her palace to hear the news. Again, in the Iphigenia in Tauris (act 4.), the necessary presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a gross absurdity, which is to form a secret in their hearing; and, to disguise the absurdity, much court is paid to the chorus, not one woman but a number, to engage them to secrecy. In the Medea of Euripides, that princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the chorus, to plot the death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her father the king of Corinth, all by poison; it was necessary to bring Medea upon the stage; and there is but one place of action, which is always occupied by the chorus. This scene closes the second act; and in the end of the third, she frankly makes the chorus her confidants in plotting the murder of her own children. Terence, by identity of place, is often forced to make a conversation within doors be heard on the open street: the cries of a woman in labour are there heard distinctly.

The Greek poets are not less hampered by unity of time than by that of place. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, that prince is banished at the end of the 4th act; and in the first scene of the following act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of the death of Hippolytus by the sea-monster: that remarkable event must have occupied many hours; and yet in the representation it is confined to the time employ'd by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 4th act. The inconsistency is still greater in the Iphigenia in Tauris (act 5. sc. 4.): the song could not exhaust half an hour; and yet the incidents supposed to have happened during that time, could not naturally have been transacted in less than half a day.

The Greek artists are forced, not less frequently, to transgress another rule, derived also from a continued representation. The rule is, that as a vacancy, however momentary, interrupts the representation, it is necessary that the place of action be constantly occupied. Sophocles, with regard to that rule as well as to others, is generally correct; but Euripides cannot bear such restraint; he often evacuates the stage, and leaves it empty for others. Iphigenia in Tauris, after pronouncing a colloquy in the first scene, leaves the place of action, and is succeeded by Orestes and Pylades: they, after some conversation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the Alcestes, which is of the same author, the place of action is void at the end of the 3d act. It is true, that to cover the irregularity, and to preserve the representation in motion, Euripides is careful to fill the stage without loss of time: but this still is an interruption, and a link of the chain broken; for during the change of the actors, there must be a space of time, during which the stage is occupied by neither set. It makes indeed a more remarkable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.

It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having no chorus, there is a pause in the representation at the end of every act: but advantage is not taken of the cessation, even to vary the place of action; for the street is always chosen, where everything passing may be seen by every person; and by that choice, the most sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly pass within doors, are are excluded; witness the last act of the Eunuch. He hath submitted to the like slavery with respect to time.

In a word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous fectary follows implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once considering whether their introductory cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence, makes good use of the liberty afforded by an interrupted representation: he varies the place of action upon all occasions, when the variation suits his purpose.

The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that we plead for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed during each act; for during the representation, there is no opportunity for the smallest deviation from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, that during an act the stage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacancy makes an interval or interruption. Another rule is no less essential: it would be a gross breach of the unity of action, to exhibit upon the stage two separate actions at the same time; and therefore, to preserve that unity, it is necessary that each personage introduced during an act, be linked to those in possession of the stage, so as to join all in one action. These things follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the slightest interruption: the moment the representation is intermitted, there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act, but where, after a pause or interval, the representation is again put in motion. French writers, generally speaking, are correct in this particular. The English, on the contrary, are so irregular as scarce to deserve a criticism: actors not only succeed each other in the same place without connection, but, what is still less excusable, they frequently succeed each other in different places. This change of place in the same act, ought never to be indulged; for, beside breaking the unity of the act, it has a disagreeable effect: after an interval, the imagination adapts itself to any place that is necessary, as readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the representation, we reject change of place. From the foregoing censure must be excepted the Mourning Bride of Congreve, where regularity concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make it one of the most complete pieces England has to boast of. It is to be acknowledged, however, that, in point of regularity, this elegant performance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts, the unities of place and time are strictly observed: but in the last act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place; for in the three first scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state, which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene: the chain also of the actors is broken; as the persons introduced in the prison, are different from those who made their appearance in the room of state. This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect two acts instead of one; and therefore, if it be a rule that a play ought not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far defective in point of regularity. It may be added, that, even admitting six acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a longer pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting; for more than a momentary interruption is requisite for enabling the imagination readily to fall in with a new place, or with a wide space of time. In The Way of the World, of the same author, unity of place is preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of time during the whole play than is necessary.

§ 4. Of the Opera.

51. An opera is a drama represented by music. This entertainment was invented at Venice. An exhibition of this sort requires a most brilliant magnificence, and an expense truly royal. The drama must necessarily be composed in verse; for as operas are sung and accompanied with symphonies, they must be in verse to be properly applicable to music. To render this entertainment still more brilliant, it is ornamented with dances and ballettes, with superb decorations, and surprising machinery. The dresses of the actors, of those who assist in the chorus, and of the dancers, being all in the most splendid and elegant taste, contribute to render the exhibition highly sumptuous. But notwithstanding this union of arts and pleasures at an immense expense, and notwithstanding a most dazzling pageantry, an opera appears, in the eyes of many people of taste, but as a magnificent absurdity, seeing that nature is never there from the beginning to the end. It is not our business here, however, to determine between the different tastes of mankind.

The method of expressing our thoughts by singing and music is so little natural, and has something in it so forced and affected, that it is not easy to conceive how it could come into the minds of men of genius to represent any human action, and, what is more, a serious or tragic action, any otherwise than by speech. We have, it is true, operas in English by Addison, &c. in Italian by Metastasio, in French by M. Quinault, Fontenelle, &c. the subjects of which are so grave and tragic, that one might call them musical tragedies, and real chefs-d'œuvre in their kind. But though we are highly satisfied and greatly affected on reading them, and are much pleased with seeing them represented, yet the spectator is, perhaps, more charmed with the magnificence of the sight and the beauty of the music, than moved with the action and the tragical part of the performance. We are not, however, of that order of critics who strive to prove, that mankind act wrong in finding pleasure in an object with which they are really pleased; who blame a lover for thinking his mistress charming, when her features are by no means regular; and who are perpetually applying the rules of logic to the works of genius; we make these observations merely in order to examine if it be not possible to augment the pleasures of a polite people, by making the opera something more natural, more probable, and more consonant to reason.

We think, therefore, that the poet should never, or at least very rarely, choose a subject from history, but from fable or mythology, or from the regions of enchantment. Every rational mind is constantly shocked to hear a mutilated hero trill out, from the slender pipe of a chaffinch, To arms! To arms! and in the fame same tone animate his soldiers, and lead them to the assault; or harangue an assembly of grave senators, and sometimes a whole body of people. Nothing can be more burlesque than such exhibitions; and a man must be possessed of a very uncommon sensibility to be affected by them. But as we know not what was the language of the gods, and their manner of expressing themselves, we are at liberty in that case to form what illusions we please, and to suppose that they sung to distinguish themselves from mortals. Besides, all the magic of decorations and machinery become natural, and even necessary, in these kinds of subjects; and therefore readily afford opportunity for all the pomp of these performances. The chorus, the dances, the ballettes, the symphonies and dresses, may likewise be all made to correspond with such subjects: nothing is here affected, absurd, or unnatural. Whoever is possessed of genius, and is well acquainted with mythology, will there find an inexhaustible source of subjects highly diversified, and quite proper for the drama of an opera.

We shall not speak here of that sort of music which appears to us the most proper for such a drama, and of the several alterations of which we think it susceptible, in order to make it more complete, and to adapt it to a more pathetic, more noble, and more natural expression, as well in the recitatives, as in the airs and chorus. We have only here to consider the business of the poet. He should never lose sight of nature, even in the midst of the greatest fiction. A god, a demi-god, a renowned hero, such for example as Renaud in Armida, a fairy, a genie, a nymph, or fury, &c. should constantly be represented according to the characters we give them, and never be made to talk the language of a pop or a petite maîtresse. The recitative, which is the ground-work of the dialogue, requires verses that are free and not regular, such as with a simple cadence approach the nearest to common language. The airs should not be forced into the piece, nor improperly placed for the sake of terminating a scene, or to display the voice of a performer: they should express some sentiment, or some precept, short and striking, or tender and affecting; or some simple lively and natural; and they should arise of themselves from a monologue, or from a scene between two persons: prolixity should here be particularly avoided, especially when such an air makes part of a dialogue; for nothing is more insipid or dilapidated than the countenances of the other actors who appear at the same time, whose silence is quite meaningless; and who know not what to do with their hands and feet while the singer is straining his throat. The verse of all the airs should be of the lyric kind, and should contain some poetic image, or paint some noble passion, which may furnish the composer with an opportunity of displaying his talents, and of giving a lively and affecting expression to the music. A phrase that is inanimated can never have a good effect in the performance, but must become insipid and horribly tedious in the air. The trite similes of the Italians of a stream that flows, or a bird that flies, &c. are no longer sufferable. The same thing may be said with regard to the chorus, which should be equally natural and well adapted: it is here sometimes a whole people, sometimes the inhabitants of a peculiar country, and sometimes warriors, nymphs, or priests, &c. who raise their voice to demand justice, to implore favour, or render a general homage. The action itself will furnish the poet of genius with ideas, words, and the manner of disposing them.

Lastly, the opera being a performance calculated less to satisfy the understanding, than to charm the ear and affect the heart, and especially to strike the sight, the poet should have a particular attention to that object, should be skilled in the arts of a theatre, should know how to introduce combats, ballettes, feats, games, pompous entries, solemn processions, and such marvellous incidents as occur in the heavens, upon earth, in the sea, and even in the infernal regions; but all these matters demand a strong character, and the utmost precision in the execution; for otherwise, the comic being a near neighbour to the sublime, they will easily become ridiculous. The unity of action must certainly be observed in such a poem, and all the incidental episodes must concur to the principal design; otherwise it would be a monstrous chaos. It is impossible, however, scrupulously to observe the unity of time and place: though the liberty, which reason allows the poet in this respect, is not without bounds; and the less use he makes of it, the more perfect his poem will be. It is not perhaps impossible to arrange the objects, that, in changing the decorations, the painter may constantly make appear some part of the principal decoration which characterises the situation of the scene, as the corner of a palace at the end of a garden, or some avenue that leads to it, &c. But all this is liable to difficulties, and even to exceptions; and the art of the painter must concur in such case with that of the poet. For the rest, all the operas of Europe are at least one third too long; especially the Italian. The unity of action requires brevity; and satiety is inseparable from a diversion that lasts full four hours, and sometimes longer. They have indeed endeavoured to obviate this inconvenience by dividing an opera into three, and even into five acts; but experience proves, that this division, though judicious, is still not sufficient to relieve the wearied attention.

Sect. II. Of Lyric Poetry.

52. The ode is very ancient, and was probably the first species of poetry. It had its source, we may suppose, from the heart, and was employed to express, with becoming fervour and dignity, the grateful sense man entertained of the blessings which daily flowed from God the fountain of all goodness: Hence their harvest hymns, and other devotional compositions of that kind.

But in process of time it was employed, not only to praise the Almighty for bounties received, but to solicit his aid in time of trouble; as is plain from the odes written by king David and others, and collected by the Jewish Sanhedrim into the book of Psalms, to be sung at their fasts, festivals, and on other solemn occasions. Nor was this practice confined to the Israelites only: Other nations had their songs of praise and petitions of this sort, which they preferred to their deities in time of public prosperity and public distress, as well as to those heroes who distinguished themselves in arms. Even the American Indians, whose notions But who can number ev'ry sandy grain Wash'd by Sicilia's hoarse-refounding main? Or who can Theron's gen'rous works express, And tell how many hearts his bounteous virtue blest?

Ode to Theron.

And in another Olympic ode, inscribed by the same poet to Diagoras of Rhodes (and in such esteem, that it was deposited in the temple of Minerva; written in letters of gold), Pindar, after exalting them to the skies, concludes with this lesson in life:

Yet as the gales of fortune various blow, To day tempestuous, and to-morrow fair, Due bounds, ye Rhodians, let your transports know; Perhaps to-morrow comes a form of care.

Weft's Pindar.

The man resolv'd and steady to his trust, Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, May the rude rabble's insolence despise, Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries; The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles, And the stern brow and the harsh voice defies, And with superior greatness smiles.

Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms, The stubborn virtue of his soul can move; Nor the red arm of angry Jove, That flings the thunder from the sky, And gives it rage to roar and strength fly. Should the whole frame of nature round him break, In ruin and confusion hurl'd, He unconcern'd would hear the mighty crack, And stand secure amidst a falling world.

Horace.

M. Despreaux has given us a very beautiful and just description of the ode in these lines.

L'Ode avec plus d'éclat, & non moins d'énergie Elevant jusqu'au ciel son vol ambitieux, Entretient dans vers commerce avec les Dieux. Aux Athletes dans Pise elle ouvre la barrière, Chante un vainqueur poudreux au bout de la carrière; Mène Achille sanglant au bords du Simois Ou fait flechir l'Escaut sous le joug de Louis. Tantôt comme une abeille ardente à son ouvrage Elle s'en va de fleurs dépouiller le rivage: Elle peint les fêlins, les danse & les ris, Vante un bailer cueilli sur les levres d'Iris, Qui mollement résiste & par un doux caprice Quelquefois le refuse, ainsi qu'on le ravisse. Son style impétueux souvent marche au hasard, Chez elle un beau defordre est un effet de l'art, Loin ces rimeurs crainctifs, dont l'esprit plegmatique Garde dans ses fureurs un ordre didactique: Qui chantant d'un héros les progrès éclatans, Maigres historiens, suivront l'ordre des temps. Apollon de son feu leur fut toujours avare, &c.

The lofty ode demands the strongest fire, For there the muse all Phœbus must inspire: Mounting to heav'n in her ambitious flight, Amongst the Gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the linewy force, And sings the dutly conqueror's glorious course;

35 L 2 To Simois' banks now fierce Achilles sends, Beneath the Gallic yoke now Escaut bends: Sometimes she flies, like an industrious bee, And robs the flow'rs by nature's chemistry; Describes the shepherd's dances, feats, and bliss, And boasts from Phillis to surprize a kite, When gently she retires with feign'd remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force. Her generous style will oft at random start And by a brave disorder show her art; Unlike those fearful poets whose cold rhyme In all their raptures keeps exactest time, Who sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise, Dry journalists, by terms of weeks and days; To these, Apollo, thrifty of his fire, Denies a place in the Pierian choir, &c.

Soames.

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.

54. I. 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,

Tho' 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 select examples, in this species of composition, we may refer the reader to the elegant Essay on Song writing, by Mr Aikin.

55. 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.

The 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, tho' 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.

Longinus has preserved a fragment of Sappho, an ancient Greek poetess, which is in great reputation among 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 deprived my soul of rest, And rais'd such tumults in my breast; For while I gaz'd, in transport toss'd, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glowed, 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.

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 with but 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. May he be completely curst, Who the sleeping mischief first Wak'd to life, and, vile before, Stamp'd with worth the forlorn 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 treasur'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. Strait 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 ploughmen call, Imp'd with wings, and arm'd with dart, Oh!—has stung me to the heart." Venus thus reply'd, and smil'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."

Mr Prior, whose poetical works will be ever admired for the natural ease and elegance of his style, as well as for the delicacy of his wit, has in several of his odes the very spirit and air of Anacreon. The following ode, in which he describes the effects of love, and intimates that the eyes are the best interpreters of the heart, is written exactly in his manner.

The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung and gaz'd; I play'd and trembled: And Venus, to the Loves around, Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

This ingenious author has given us several odes in the spirit and manner of Horace, as well as of Anacreon; and the following Answer to Chloe jealous, which was written when he 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; Left 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 palsy move thee, Reflect one moment on his truth Who, dying, thus perfus'd to love thee.

And in the piece which immediately follows, intitled, 'A better Answer to Chloe jealous,' he has, together with the gaiety and wit of Anacreon and Horace, blended some strokes of humour.

Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face? Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd; Prithee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy; More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found witt; Od's life! I must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose; And they have my whimsies, but thou halt my hearts. The god of our verse-men (you know, child) the Sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come; No matter what beauties I saw in my way, They were but my visits, but thou art my home. Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.

There is much of the sweetness of Sappho, and the sweetness of Anacreon and Prior, in the following ode; which is ascribed to the late 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 slightest 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 illus'ry, too cruel, forbidding thou'd 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; Thy breath to Eliza's no fragrance hath in'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!"

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

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 coifly wine, No murder'd fatling of the flock, But flow'rs and honey from the rock. O nymph, with loicly flowing hair, With buckin'd legs, and bosom bare; Thy wait 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; Whole rapid wings thy flight convey, Thro' 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 draw-roof'd cott was rear'd; Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne, Tell me the path, sweet wanderer tell, To thy unknown sequester'd cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where thorns and mosses o'ercast the floor; And on whose top an hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each ev'n'ning warbling thee to rest. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spenser thro' 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, goddefs, by the right-hand lead, Sometimes thro' the yellow mead; Where Joy and white rob'd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court; Where Mirth and Youth each ev'n'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; Haile, Fancy, from the scenes of Folly, To meet the matron Melancholy! Goddefs of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh. Let us with silent footstep 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 mouldring tower, Where, to avoid cold wint'ry show'rs, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whirling tempests round her rise, And trembles lest the tottering 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 Gallic 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 steed, Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With fullen joy surveys the ground, And, pointing to th' ensanguin'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't place me near my love; Can't fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I 'tral a kiss; While her ruby lips dispense Lucious nectar's quintessence! When young-eyed Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the loft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale; When Autumn cooling caverns feeks, 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 pow'ful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to ev'ry line, Nor 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 list'ning passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain; With terror shake, with pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love. O deign to attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottoes talk; Teach him to scorn, with frigid art, Feebly to touch th' enraptured heart; Like light'ning, 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 blustering 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 Phoebus shine in all his state With more than summer rays. Tho' jocund June may justly boast Long days and happy hours; Tho' August be Pomona's host, And May be crown'd with flow'rs: Tell June, his fire and crimson dies, 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.

The ensuing ode, written by Mr. Collins on the death of Mr. Thompson, 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 deliver'd 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 sylvan grave! In yon deep bed of whilp'ring reeds His airy harp * shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love thro' life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And, while its sounds at distance dwell, 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 oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as ease and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view thy whitening spire †, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthly 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 glimm'ring near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lone stream, whose full tide No fedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft 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! Ye, 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 hinds, and shepherd girls, shall dress, With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the muting Briton's eyes; O vales and wild woods, shall he say, In yonder grave thy Druid lies!

57. 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 etherial sky, And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim: Th'unweared 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'n'ing shades prevail, The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, And nightly to the list'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 ringing, 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 loft and flow,

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.

58. III. We are now to speak of those odes which are of the sublime and noble kind, and distinguished from others by their elevation of thought and diction, as well as by the variety or irregularity of their numbers, as the 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 anything the heathen poets have produced of the kind, and is by all good judges considered as a masterpiece 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. It has not indeed the measure, cadence, and harmony, which we meet with in some of the Greek and Latin poets; but these, perhaps, may, in some measure, have been lost in the translation.

59. We come now to the Pindaric ode, which is (if we except the hymns in the Old Testament, and the Psalms of king David) the most exalted part of Lyric poetry; 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 presaging, that the first would decay, but the other 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 Weft observes, 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 antistrope, from the counterversion 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 Weft'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 antistrope, till they came to the same place again, and then standing still they sung the epode. He has translated a passage from the Scholia on Hephaestion, in proof of his opinion; and observes, that the dancing the strophe and antistrope 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 Weft.

The eleventh Nemean Ode.

This ode is inscribed to Ariflagoras, upon occasion of his entering on his office of president or governor of the island of Tenos; so that, although it is placed among the Nemean odes, it has no fort 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 Ariflagoras 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 antistrope.

Argument.

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 Prytaneum, as the Greeks called them), beseeching her to receive favourably Ariflagoras and his colleagues, who were then coming to offer sacrifices to her, upon their entering on their office of Prytans or magistrates of Tenos; which office continuing for a year, he begs the goddess to take Ariflagoras under her protection during that time, and to conduct him to the end of it without trouble or disgrace. From Ariflagoras, Pindar turns himself in the next place to his father Arcesilas, 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 puffed 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 Ariflagoras, 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 illuse in their disgrace; as, on the other hand, they are frequently restrained, by unreasonable and ill-grounded fears, from enterprizes, in which they would in all probability have come off with honour. This reflection he applies to Ariflagoras, by saying it was very easy to foresee what success he was like to meet with, who both by father and mother was defended from a long train of great and valiant men. But here again, with a very artful turn of flattery to his father Arcesilas, 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 enterprizes, 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... Strophe I.

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 co-equal claims With Jove to share the empire of the Gods! O virgin Vesta! to thy dread abodes, Lo! 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.

Antistrophe I.

And lo! with frequent off'rings, they adore Thee *, first invoked in ev'ry 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 hepitable 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.

Epode I.

But hail, Arcelias! all hail To thee, blest father of a son so great! Thou whom on fortune's highest scale The favourable hand of heav'n hath fet, 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 renown'd; Tho' with triumphal chaplets crown'd: Let him remember, that, in flesh array'd, Soon shall he see that mortal vesture fade; Till loft, imprison'd in the mould'ring urn, To earth, the end of all things, he return.

Strophe II.

Yet should the worthy from the public tongue Receive their recompence of virtuous praise; By ev'ry zealous patriot sung, 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 wrecker's chaplet still unfaded blows; Mix'd with the great Pancratiafic crown, Which from the neighb'ring youth thy early valour won.

Antistrophe II.

And (but his timid parents' cautious love, Distrubing ever his too forward hand, Forbad their tender son to prove The toils of Pythia* or Olympia's sands), With olives, now by the Gods I swear, his valorous might Had 'scap'd victorious in each bloody fight; And from * Castalia, or where dark with shade The mount † of Saturn rears its olive head,

Epode II.

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 prepot'trous fate! Now, with o'er-weaning 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' empow'r'd to gain the prize.

Strophe III.

But who could err in prophesying good Of him, whose undegenerating breast Swells 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 Amyclae to the Leibian shore And Tenedos, colleague'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 † Ilmenus' wave.

Antistrophe III.

Tho' for long intervals obscure'd, again Oft-times the seeds of lineal worth appear. For neither can the furrow'd plain Full harvest yield with each returning year; Nor in each period will the pregnant bloom Invest 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.

Epode III.

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 innate 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 madnefs oft that passion turns, Which with forbidden flames despairing burns.

60. From the above specimen, and from what we have already said on this subject, the reader will perceive, that odes of this fort 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... poet who would excel in this kind of writing, should draw the plan of his poem, in manner of the argument we have above inserted, 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 odoriferous and delicate nature, are not to be transplanted into another clime without losing much of their fragrance, or essential quality.

61. 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: and the critic Mr Congreve has given us on that subject, has too much aperity, 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 numbers 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, intitled, Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music, is altogether as valuable in his 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 sat 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, 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 heav'nly 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 spheres he rode, When he to fair Olympia press'd; And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a foreign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound. A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravish'd ears The monarch hears, Assumes 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 hautboys 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 is 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 be routed all his foes, and thrice he flew 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 sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering 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 down-cast looks the joyless victor sat, Revolving in his alter'd foul 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 sound to move; For pity melts the mind to love, Softly sweet, in Lydian measures: Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, 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 sits 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, 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 opprest, 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 asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the horrid sound Has rais'd up his head, As awak'd from the dead, And amaz'd he stares round.

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, 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 Perian 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, fir'd another Troy.

Chor. And the king seiz'd, &c.

Thus long ago, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The feet enthusiasm, 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.

As Mr Pope has employ'd his masterly pen upon the same subject, it would be doing him a sort of injustice not to let him appear with Mr Dryden. Each of these odes, we may venture to say, is written with a spirit of poetry peculiar to the great genius of their respective authors; but which of them has succeeded best, let the critics determine.

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre! In a sadly-pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain: Let the loud trumpet found, Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound: While, in more lengthen'd notes and slow, The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark! the numbers soft and clear Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies: Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away In a dying, dying fall. By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her soft affusive voice applies; Or when the soul is press'd with cares, Exalts her in enlivening airs. Warriors she fires with animated sounds, Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds; Melancholy lifts her head, Morpheus rouzes from his bed, Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, Lifting Envy drops her snakes; Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions hear away their rage. But when our country's cause provokes to arms, How martial music ev'ry bosom warms! So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas, High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain, While Argo saw her kindred trees Descend from Pelion to the main. Transported Demi-gods stood round, And men grew heroes at the sound, Enflam'd with glory's charms: Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, And half unsheath'd the shining blade; And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, To arms, to arms, to arms! But when through all th' infernal bounds Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, Love, strong as death the poet led To the pale nations of the dead, What sounds were heard, What scenes appear'd O'er all the dreary coasts! Dreadful gleams, Dismal screams, Fires that glow,

Shrieks Shrieks of wo, Sullen moans, Hollow groans, And cries of tortur'd ghosts! But hark! he strikes the golden lyre, And see, the tortur'd ghosts respire! See shady forms advance! Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, Ixion rests upon his wheel, And the pale spectres dance! The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurl'd hang li'ning round their heads.

By the streams that ever flow, By the fragrant winds that blow— O'er the Elysian bow'rs; By those happy souls who dwell In yellow meads of asphodel, Or amaranthine bow'rs; By the heroes armed shades, Glittering thro' the gloomy glades; By the youths who died for love, Wand'ring in the myrtle grove; Repose, repose, Euridyce to life; Oh take the husband, or return the wife! He sung, and hell consented To hear the poet's pray'r; Stern Proserpine relented, And gave him back the fair. Thus song could prevail O'er death and o'er hell, A conquest how hard and how glorious! Tho' fate had fall bound her With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes: Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love, Now under hanging mountains, Beside the fall of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, All alone Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, Forever, ever, ever lost! Now with furies surrounded, Despairing, confounded, He trembles, he glows Amidst Rhodope's snows: See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies! Hark! Hæmus refounds with the Bacchanal's cries— Ah see, he dies!

Yet even in death Euridyce he sung, Euridyce still trembled on his tongue; Euridyce the woods, Euridyce the floods, Euridyce the rocks and hollow mountains rung. Music the fiercest grief can charm, And fate's severest rage disarm: Music can soften pain to ease, And make despair and madness please; Our joys below it can improve, And antedate the bliss above.

This the divine Cecilia found, And to her Maker's praise confin'd she found. When the full organ joins the tuneful quire, Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear; Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, While solemn airs improve the sacred fire, And angels lean from heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is given: His numbers rais'd a shade from hell, Her's lift the soul to heav'n.

The following imitation of the 9th ode of the first book of Horace, by Mr Congreve, is of the irregular kind; and has been much admir'd, as well for the beautiful description of the winter, as for his moral reflections.

Bless me, 'tis cold! how chill the air! How naked does the world appear! But see (big with the offspring of the north) The teeming clouds bring forth: A shower of soft and fleecy rain Falls to new-clothe the earth again. Behold the mountain-tops, around, As if with fur of ermins crown'd: And lo! how by degrees The universal mantle hides the trees In hoary flakes, which downward fly, As if it were the autumn of the sky; Trembling the groves sustain the weight, and bow Like aged limbs, which feebly go Beneath a venerable head of snow. Diffusive cold does the whole earth invade; Like a disease, thro' all its veins 'tis spread, And each late living stream is numb'd and dead. Let's melt the frozen hours, make warm the air; Let cheerful fires Sol's feeble beams repair: Fill the large bowl with sparkling wine; Let's drink, 'till our own faces shine, 'Till we like suns appear, To light and warm the hemisphere. Wine can dispense to all both light and heat; They are with wine incorporate: That pow'ful juice, with which no cold dares mix, Which still is fluid, and no frost can fix; Let that but in abundance flow, And let it storm and thunder, hail and snow, 'Tis heav'n's concern; and let it be The care of heaven still, for me. Those winds, which rend the oaks and plough the sea, Great Jove can, if he please, With one commanding nod appease. Seek not to know to-morrow's doom; That is not ours, which is to come. The present moment's all our store; The next should heav'n allow, Then this will be no more: So all our Life is but one instant now. Look on each day you've past To be a mighty treasure won: And lay each moment out in haste; We're sure to live too fast, And cannot live too soon. Youth does a thousand pleasures bring Which from decrepid age will fly; The flowers that flourish in the spring, In winter's cold embraces die. Now Love, that everlasting Boy, invites To revel, while you may, in soft delights. Now the kind nymph yields all her charms; Nor yields to youthful arms: Slowly she promises at night to meet; But eagerly prevents the hour with swifter feet; To gloomy groves and shades obscure she flies, There veils the bright confession of her eyes. Unwilling the lays, Would more unwillingly depart, And in soft sighs conveys The whispers of her heart. Still she invites, and still denies, And vows she'll leave you if you're rude; Then from her ravisher she flies, But flies to be purf'd: If from his sight she does herself convey, With a feign'd laugh she will herself betray, And cunningly instruct him in the way.

Mr Mafon's ode on Constancy, which is also of the irregular kind, shows that these sort of odes are well adapted to subjects of an elevated and sublime nature, where much imagery is introduced.

Whence does this sudden lustre rise, That gilds the grove? Not like the noon-tide beam Which sparkling dances on the trembling stream, Nor the blue lightning's flash swift-shooting thro' But such a solemn steady light, As o'er the cloudless azure steals, When Cynthia, riding on the brow of night, Stops in their mid career her silver wheels. Whence can it rise, but from the sober pow'r Of Constancy? the, heaven-born queen, Descends, and in this (a) woobine-vested bower Fixes her stedfast reign: Stedfast as when her high command Gives to the starry band Their radiant stations in heav'n's ample plain: Stedfast, as when around this nether sphere She winds the purple year; Tells what time the snow-drop cold Its maiden whiteness may unfold, When the golden harvest bend; Then bids pale Winter wake to pour The pearly hail's translucent show'r, When the ruddy fruits descend, To cast its silv'ry mantle o'er the woods, And bind in crystal chains the slumbering floods. The soul, which she inspires, has pow'r to climb To all the heights sublime Of virtue's towering hill. That hill, at whose low foot weak warbling lays The scanty stream of human praise, A shallow trickling rill. While on the summits hovering angels shed From their blest pinions the nectarous dews Of rich immortal fame: from these the muse

Oft steals some precious drops, and blends with art With those the lower streams impart; Then shows it all on some high-favour'd head. But thou, Elfrida, claim'st the genuine dew; Thy worth demands it all, Pure and unmixed on thee the sacred drops shall fall.

We shall conclude this section, and these examples, with Dr Akenside's ode on the subject we have been treating of. In this piece, which is an original of the kind, the measures are varied in imitation of those ancients who have excelled in lyric poetry.

Once more I join the Thespian quire, And taste th' inspiring fount again, O parent of the Grecian lyre, Admit me to thy sacred strain— And lo! with ease my step invades The pathless vale and opening shades, 'Till now I spy her verdant seat; And now at large I drink the sound, While there her offspring, list'ning round, By turns her melody repeat. I see Anacreon smile and sing, His silver tresses breathe perfume; His cheek displays a second spring Of roses, taught by wine to bloom. Away, deceitful cares, away! And let me listen to his lay, While flow'ry dreams my soul employ; While turtle-wing'd the laughing Hours, Lead hand in hand the festal pow'rs, Lead Youth and Love, and harmless Joy. Broke from the fetters of his native land, Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, With louder impulse, and a threat'ning hand, The Lesbion (b) patriot smites the founding Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, Ye curst of gods and free-born men, Ye murd'rors of the laws, Though now you glory in your lust, Though now you tread the feeble neck in dust, Yet time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause. But lo, to Sappho's mournful airs Descends the radiant queen of love; She smiles, and asks what fonder cares Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: Why is my faithful maid distress'd? Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast? Say, flies he?—soon he shall pursue; Shuns he thy gifts?—he too shall give: Slights he thy sorrows?—he shall grieve, And bend him to thy haughty vow. But, O Melpomene, for whom Awakes thy golden shell again? What mortal breath shall e'er presume To echo that unbounded strain? Majestic in the frown of years, Behold the man (c) of Thebes appears: For some there are, whose mighty frame

(a) In which Ethelwold and Elfrida had been just exchanging professions of their mutual fidelity. (b) Alceus of Mitylene, the capital of Lesbos, who fled from his native city to escape the operation of those who had inflamed it, and wrote against them in his exile those noble invectives which are much applauded by the ancient critics. The hand of Jove at birth endow'd With hopes that mock the gazing crowd; As eagles drink the noontide flame, While the dim raven beats his weary wings, And clamours far below.—Propitious muse, While I so late unlock thy hallow'd springs, And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse, To polish Albion's warlike ear This long-loft melody to hear, Thy sweetest arts employ; As when the winds from shore to shore, Thro' Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore, Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy. But oft amid the Graecian throng, The looee-robd forms of wild desire With lawless notes intun'd thy song, To shameful steps dissolv'd thy quire. O fair, O chaste, be still with me, From such profaner discord free: While I frequent thy tuneful shade, No frantic shouts of Thracian dames, No satyrs fierce with savage flames, Thy pleasing accents shall invade. Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat, The fairest flow'rs of Pindus glow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat, And myrtles round thy laurel grow. Thy strings attune their varied strain, To every pleasure, every pain, Which mortal tribes were born to prove; And strait our passions rise or fall, As, at the winds imperious call, The ocean (wells, the billows move. When midnight lifts o'er the slumbering earth, Let me, O muse, thy solemn whispers hear; When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth, With airy murmurs touch my opening ear. And ever watchful at thy side, Let wisdom's awful suffrage guide The tenor of thy lay: To her of old by Jove was given To judge the various deeds of earth and heav'n; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway. Oft as from stricter hours resign'd, I quit the maze where science toils, Do thou refresh my yielding mind With all thy gay, delusive spoils. But, O indulgent, come not nigh The busy steps, the jealous eye, Of gainful Care and wealthy Age, Whose barren souls thy joys disdain, And hold as foes to reason's reign Whome'er thy lovely haunts engage. With me, when Mirth's consenting band, Around fair Friendship's genial board, Invite the heart-awakening hand, With me salute the Teian chord. Or if invok'd at softer hours, O seek with me the happy bow'rs That hear Dione's gentle tongue; To beauty link'd with virtue's train, To love devoid of jealous pain. There let the sapphic lute be strung. But when from envy, and from death, to claim A hero bleeding for his native land;

Or, when to nourish freedom's vestal flame, I hear my genius utter his command; Nor Theban voice, nor Lesbian lyre From thee, O muse, do I require, While my prophetic mind, Conscious of pow'rs she never knew, Astonish'd, grasps at things beyond her view, Nor by another's fate hath felt herself confin'd.

SECT. III. Of the Elegy.

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

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, Might more of love than poetry possess. I hate those lifeless writers whose force'd fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; Who sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood, Their sluggish mute spur to an am'rous mood. Their ecstasies insipidly they feign; And always pine, and fondly hug their chain; Adore their prison, and their sufferings blest; 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 entitle.

[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 passions. 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, professions 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 church-yard, is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteemed. Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neigh'ring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumber, 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 I'll scorn each vain desire. With timely care I'll sow my little field, And plant my orchard with its master's hand; Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range the sheaves along the sunny land. If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer 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 lull'd 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 possest, Could float and wander with ambition's wind, And, if his outward trappings spoke him blest, Not heed the fickleness 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 steady reign his eager wit confine, While manly sense the deep attention draws. Let Stanhope speak his list'ning country's wrong, My humble voice shall please one partial maid; For her alone I pen my tender song, Securely fitting 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 indulgence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguished from the rest. For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock, For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, And sleep extended on the naked rock. Ah! what avails to press the lately bed,

And far from her midst tasteless grandeur weep, By warbling fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! Delia alone can please and never tire, Exceed the pain of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyment awakes new desire, And equal rapture glows thro' every night. Beauty and worth, alone in her, 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 breast 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 wond'rous loves relate.

Sect. IV. Of the Pastoral.

63. 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, or interlocutors, introduced in it, either shepherds or other rustic.

These poems are frequently called eclogues, which signifies "select or choice pieces;" though some account for this name in a different manner. They are also called bucolicks, from Bucolus, a "herdsman."

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 generally 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 undefining 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, Part II.

Pastoral. 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; lest 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 superstitious 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 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 fields 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 inconstancy, 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.

64. Theocritus, who was the father or inventor of this kind of poetry, has been deservedly esteemed by the best critics; and by some, whose judgment we cannot dispute, preferred to all other pastoral writers. 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, Mean while my goats upon the mountains feed: O Tityrus, tend them with affiduous 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 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. Mean while these heart-confuming pains remove, And give me gentle pity for my love. Oh was I made by some transforming power A bee to buzz in your sequester'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 nurt'rt 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 wove 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 fees 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 Alps 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 leafing 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, Erithacus, 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 Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear, Perhaps the fair my tender notes shall hear; Perchance 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 stray; She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took fire, She plung'd into the gulph of deep desire.

To Pyle from Othrys sage 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 chase, Nor dead dismisse'd him from her warm embrace.

Though young Endymion was by Cythia blest, I envy nothing but his lasting rest. Japhon flamb'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.

65. Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in 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 perfect.

Meliboeus and Tityrus.

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

Tit. These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd; For never can I deem him less than god. The tender firstlings 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 forlorn 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 creaking from the left prefag'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 their 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: 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 meaner 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 country 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 keeps them only, Tityrus, for thee: For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn, And whispering pines made vows for thy return.

Tit. What should I do? while here I was enchained, 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 first 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 neigh'ring plains, Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields And there the soil a florny harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor fear a rot from tainted company. Behold you bord'ring fence of fallow trees [bees] Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with The busy bees, with a soft murm'ring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain: While from the neigh'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, forfaking 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 come to fair Oaxis shall be told, 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! 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 below? Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow! Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine. Farewell my pastures, my paternal stock, 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 grot 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 fowls shall please the rural crew: Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu!

This night, at least, with me forget your care; Chefsnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare: The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'er-spread, And boughs shall weave a covering for your head: For see you sunny hill the shade extends, And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Dryden.

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

Argument. "Hobbino, 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 Hobbino'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 the water's fall their tunes attempt right.

Col. O! happy Hobbino, I bless thy state, That paradise hath found which Adam lost. Here wander may thy flock early or late, Without dread of wolves to been yott; 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 foil 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 every where 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 heydegues, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst filters nine, which dwell on Parnass' height, Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces, Will pipe and dance, when Phoebus shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

Col. And I, whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love, In such delights did joy amongst my peers: But riper age such pleasures doth reprove, My fancy cke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in passing wears (As garments done, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with hoary hairs. Though couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made: Though would I seek for queen-apples unripe To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade Dight gaudy girlonds was my common trade, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe, And lots of her, whose love as life I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.

Hob. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelayes, Which thou wert wont on watful hills to sing, I more delight, than lark in sommer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring, And taught the birds, which in the lower spring Did throud in shady leaves from funny rays, Frame to thy song their cheerful chirping, Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays. I saw Calliope with muses mee, Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tamburins forego, And from the fountain, where they sat 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 out-go.

Col. Of muses, Hobbino, I con no skill, For they been daughters of the highest Jove, And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill: For fish I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift presume to Parnass' hill, But piping low, in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill. Nought weigh I, who my song doth praife or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest; With shepherds fits 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 same. The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:

35 N 2 He, He, whilst he lived, was the sovereign 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 sheep about us safely fed. 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 same whereof doth daily greater grow. But if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned bed, I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourteese, 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 she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery Didst underfong my las to wax so light, Shouldst well be known for such thy villany. But since I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed: And tell the las, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless feere, That she the truest shepherd's heart mide bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear. Hob. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ah! faithless Rolafind, 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 blest flocks, and home apace, Left night with flealing steps do you forego, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.

67. By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr Phillips has, in imitation of Spencer, preserved in his pastorals many antiquated words, which, though they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds and other rusticks 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 woful 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'it 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 mirth 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 plains; Or who may then the weight of old fain'tain, 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 wo, To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

Co. Idly 'twill waite thee, Thenot, the whole day; Shouldst 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 Lighthoof; he shall tend them clofe: and I, 'Twixen whiles, a-crois 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-leaf, 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 th' 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 gras; Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foretells 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 forcast 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 enticement charm'd thee, far away, From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray? Go. A lewd desire strange lands, and swains, to know.

Ah me! that ever I should covet woe. With wand'ring feet unblest, and fond of fame, I sought I know not what besides a name.

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

Go. 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 woe! My sheep quite spent through travel and ill fare, And like their keeper ragged grown and bare, The damp cold greenward for my nightly bed, And some flaut willow's trunk to rest my head. Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain; And hard is want to the unpractic'd swain; But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard, To blasting storms of calumny compard: 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 sooner than an evil tongue?

Go. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite, Make mock of all the ditties I endite. In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo 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, Preserves 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.

Go. 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'n'ing fare; and, for the night, Sweet herbs and moe, 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.

68. Mr Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different dress from those of Spenser and Phillips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his swains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely harmonious: his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better pastorals. We shall infer the eclogue 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 abject 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! Oh, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains, Their artless passions, and their tender pains. Now setting Phoebus 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 times their pleasing shades deny; For her, the lilts hang their head and die. Ye flow'rs, that droop, forlorn by the spring, Ye birds, that left by summer cease to sing, Ye trees, that fade when autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my 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 evening 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 faint with pain, Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine to bee, Are half so charming as thy sight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds; Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy foorth 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 admird; Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Refound ye hills, refound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain:

Here Here where the mountains, leas'ning as they rise, Loose the low vales, and steal into the skies; While laboring 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.

Refound, ye hills, refound 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.

Refound, ye hills, refound 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 blush'ing berries paint the yellow grove; Jult Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

Refound, ye hills, refound 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 prefer'd my sheep? Pan came, and asked, what magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but here, alas! have pow'r to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains. From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forlorn mankind, and all the world—but love! I know thee, love! wild as the raging main, More fell than tygers on the Libyan plain: Thouwert from Etna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.

Refound, ye hills, refound 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 refound my strains!

Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blush'ing with departing lights, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had length'ned ev'ry shade.

To these pastorals, which are written agreeably to the 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